Hide Your Fires: The 50th Hunger Games
by Elim9
Summary: "Stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see."
1. When It Is Done

**Disclaimer:** This may be my seventh SYOT, but I still don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Okay, _here's_ the SYOT. **Information and the tribute form are up on my profile.** The deadline isn't for a while because I want some wiggle room to get a bit farther in _Mistakes of the Past_ before diving into this one, but after people kept asking, I figured I might as well post the prologue, because I had it written, anyway. So ... here it is.

* * *

 **Hide Your Fires**

* * *

 **Prologue Part One  
** **When It Is Done**

* * *

 **Autumn Porter, 18  
** **Avox**

She'd never seen him this nervous.

Autumn watched as Eldred continued to pace about his office, glancing occasionally at the clock, the pictures on his desk, the books on the shelf. Anything to distract him from what was about to happen. What he was about to do. The card was on his desk – the card that held the twist for the Second Quarter Quell. She'd been tempted several times to look at it when he'd left the room, but fear had stopped her every time.

Not fear of him. She'd never been afraid of him. She hadn't been afraid when a strange man calling himself Edsel had appeared beside her at work one day, or when Gran had offered him a place in their small apartment. She _had_ been afraid when the Peacekeepers had caught the pair of them sneaking out of District Six, when they had brought her to the Capitol and made her an Avox. But though the Capitol was terrifying at first, she had never been afraid of Eldred – not even after learning that he'd been appointed Vice President. He'd taken her in, treated her well – almost like another one of his daughters. He'd never been anything but kind to her.

But the Quell … that was anything _but_ kind. What he had planned for the Games, she didn't want to know. But they would all find out soon. There was no stopping it.

She was safe, of course. Here, in the Capitol, she was safe from the reach of the Games. But her brother Angelo, back in District Six, would be twelve in four days – just in time for the reaping in a few weeks. Bianca was a few years younger, but there was no telling what the Quell twist might be. If the reaping ages were changed…

There was no reason, really, to think the twist might have anything to do with the tributes' ages. The twist for the 25th Games had been an increased number of tributes – three per district – and a ban on volunteers. But ever since the 42nd Games, District Six – along with most of the other districts – had been required to send extra tributes, anyway. And volunteers weren't exactly a common occurrence in Six. So neither of those would be particularly devastating.

But the twist wouldn't be the same as last time. That was the point, after all – the surprise, the suspense, the threat of never knowing what the Capitol might have planned.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Eldred, too, nearly jumped. "Come in!" he called, turning sharply as the door opened.

A young man, his clothes formal and his demeanor stiff, entered. "Mr. Vice President. I'm here to escort you to the ceremony."

Eldred chuckled a little. "All right. If it makes you feel better."

"You can never be too careful."

"Well, good thing I'm here to protect you, then." Eldred scooped up the envelope from his desk and turned to Autumn. "Help yourself to a cookie or two if you like." He nodded towards his stash in the second drawer. "I'll be back soon."

Autumn nodded, but she couldn't help but notice the other man's uncomfortable look as the pair left. It wasn't usual for Capitol citizens to address Avoxes, unless they were giving them orders. Certainly he hadn't expected the Vice President of Panem to offer his Avox a cookie.

But Eldred never treated her like an Avox. A servant. A slave. Officially, she was his assistant. His aide. His secretary, maybe. Unofficially, he'd worked as a secretary himself long enough to do her job much faster than she could do it herself.

So, instead, he was teaching her – and not just how to file his papers and clean his office. Back in District Six, she'd had to drop out of school early to take care of her younger siblings after her mother's death. Eldred and his family were slowly filling in the gaps in her education. She spent most of her spare time in his office reading, a luxury she'd never imagined. As the Vice President, Eldred had access to all sorts of books – even some that would certainly be banned in the districts. How he had come by them, she had never worked up the courage to ask, but the first time she'd asked if there were any she wasn't allowed to read, he'd assured her that nothing in his office was forbidden.

Especially his cookie stash.

Autumn helped herself to one, trying to calm her nerves as she turned the screen on. She didn't want to watch, but refusing to watch this moment wouldn't change the Quell. It wouldn't make her brother any safer. And it certainly wouldn't calm her down.

So she closed the door and watched silently as the Hunger Games' new host, Malchus Fritz, introduced President Silas Grisom, who only a few weeks ago had announced that he would be stepping down after this year's Games, and that Eldred would be replacing him.

Eldred would be president. She was still trying to wrap her head around that.

As a sign of the peaceful transition – certainly more peaceful than President Snow's abrupt assassination only nine years before – President Grisom had offered to let Eldred read the Quell card this year. So Malchus introduced Eldred, as well – as Vice President Brand, of course – and then ushered him to the microphone. His wife, his daughter Ellery, and his son Milton stood proudly behind, and his daughter Rylee, only a few years younger than Autumn, was holding the envelope he had brought from his office.

"Welcome, everyone," President Grisom began. "And to those watching throughout Panem, thank you for joining us tonight for the announcement of the Second Quarter Quell. During the First Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that the horrors of war show now partiality or distinction, the names of the eligible tributes were placed in a single reaping bowl per district, and three tributes were chosen without the possibility of volunteers."

Autumn wasn't old enough to remember the first Quell, but she'd seen the tapes. The difference between the confident lawyer who had mentored District Twelve's first Victor during the Quell and the man who stood at the microphone now was striking. Grisom's hair was greyer, his face wrinkled, his eyes tired. But there was still a certain dignity about him as he stepped aside, allowing Eldred to take his place at the microphone.

Eldred nodded to Rylee, who brought the envelope forward. Without any flourish, Eldred opened it, quickly scanning the contents before reading it. It was all for show. He already knew what the twist was; she was sure of that. But the illusion of surprise had to be maintained.

Eldred took a deep breath. "This year, as a reminder to the rebels that every success brings a greater danger, thirty-five tributes will be reaped in proportion to the number of Victors in each district. These tributes may be any combination of male and female, but no volunteers will be permitted."

Thirty-five. That wasn't much of a surprise. Since the 43rd Games, there had been thirty-five tributes, although President Grisom had promised that the number would be reduced back to two per district following the Quell. But 'in proportion to the number of Victors'? So more Victors meant more tributes. But what did that mean for District Six?

As if in answer to her question, numbers began scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Apparently, someone had been smart enough to realize not everyone was going to be able to do proportions in their heads. Four tributes for District One. Five for District Two. Two for District Three…

District Three. They had three Victors. So did District Six. So that meant only two tributes for District Six, as well, didn't it? Autumn held her breath as the numbers continued to scroll. Four tributes each for Districts Four and Five. And two for District Six.

Two tributes. That was nothing compared to the four tributes they'd sent every year since the 43rd Games, and the six they'd sent to the 42nd. Two tributes for Seven and Eight, as well. Three for District Nine. Two for Ten, three for Eleven, and two for Twelve.

Autumn let out a deep breath. Okay. Okay, that wasn't so bad. The poorer districts with fewer Victors had been spared the brunt of the twist. The Career districts might have been happy with their increased chances, if it weren't for the other part – no volunteers. That wasn't likely to have an impact in Six, but elsewhere…

Elsewhere. That wasn't her problem. As long as her family was safe, the other districts could send as many tributes as they liked.

Autumn blushed, glad she hadn't said that – or written it, really – around Eldred. He would be disappointed. If there was one thing he was adamant about, it was that what happened elsewhere in Panem _mattered._ Everything seemed to matter to him. Maybe that would make him a good President. Or maybe…

 _Stop it._ That wasn't her problem, either. Eldred had been kind to her, but how he ran the country was his business, not hers. She was just an Avox. Just an orphan girl from Six who wanted her family to be safe. Maybe it wasn't much, but it had always been enough for her. She couldn't afford to worry about all of Panem's problems; if she did, she was certain, she would go mad. There were too many to worry about. Too many to count.

But maybe – just maybe – Eldred would be able to fix some of them.

* * *

" _Stars, hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see."_


	2. Justice

**Disclaimer** : I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Still plenty of time left to submit tributes. In the meantime, here's a little check-in with the Victors of the previous four SYOTs in this 'verse.

On that note, if you're just jumping in now, _please_ let me know if there's anything that's not clear. One of my goals is for my stories to make sense even if you _haven't_ read the previous ones. So if there's anything that needs to be cleared up, sound off in the reviews. I won't be offended.

* * *

 **Prologue Part Two  
** **Justice**

* * *

 **Harakuise Swallot, 55  
** **District Five Mentor**

It clearly wasn't what they'd been expecting.

Harakuise glanced around the room as Camden switched off the screen, muttering under her breath. "Well, it could have been worse," Jai offered. He and Harakuise were seated on the couch, with their foster daughter, Camden, in between.

Oliver, seated in a chair nearby, couldn't hide a small smirk as Camden fumed. " _How_? Four tributes, and no volunteers? I had two volunteers lined up and ready to go! One of them is eighteen. This was her last chance!"

Oliver shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Harri warned you last year that you might want to consider seventeen-year-olds. No volunteering was part of the twist last time, too."

"Which is why I figured it _wouldn't_ be this time," Camden reasoned. "Why would they forbid volunteers again?"

"It's a reminder," Harakuise explained. "A reminder that our ability to train Careers is a privilege granted by the Capitol – not something to be taken lightly."

Camden fell silent, nodding a little. She understood, Harakuise knew. She was upset for the moment, but she would come around. It wasn't so long ago, after all, that District Five hadn't had a Career system at all, and the one they had now was largely of her making. If anything, this Quell would only make the district more supportive of her actions, once they had a reminder of what the Games were like for untrained tributes.

"Four tributes," Oliver mused. "I suppose we'll be sending four mentors, too, then."

Harakuise nodded. "Are you volunteering?" Oliver hadn't shown much interest in mentoring, but maybe that was simply a recognition of the fact that Camden clearly wanted one of the spots, and Harakuise had always been content to join her himself. But if there were going to be four of them, Oliver was a practical choice. Beneath his casual demeanor was a drive and a deep understanding of the Games that even some of the other Careers lacked.

Oliver grinned. "Well, since you asked so nicely, I don't think I have any other plans. Who else?"

It was a good question. Sabine hadn't mentored since Camden's victory. Tania had been away from mentoring even longer. Mentoring had never seemed a good fit for Adalyn, and she probably wouldn't _want_ to mentor a tribute who hadn't been trained. "I don't know," Harakuise admitted. "I guess we'll have to wait and see what sort of tributes we end up with."

The others nodded along, but there was an uncomfortable silence in the air. An uncertainty that had been left behind as volunteers had become more common. Maybe it made the others uneasy, but there was a certain excitement about it – about not knowing quite what to expect. The Career system Camden had built was an excellent way to improve their district's chances, to ensure that the tributes had the best preparation possible. But it also eliminated an element of chance from the Games. And chance could work in a tribute's favor. Recently, the other districts had some idea of what to expect from District Five's tributes. Now…

Now, anyone could be chosen. As he had been. District Five's younger Victors forgot that sometimes. They considered him one of them. And, in the most important ways, he was. He had always been loyal to the Capitol, to their district, to the ideals of their nation. He'd always supported the Games. But he'd never particularly wanted to _be_ in them.

But he had been. And he had won. Without any training or any particular strength or skill aside from his wits and his words. He had emerged victorious not because of preparation, but because of his ability to adapt, to play the Game the way it was meant to be played.

This year's tributes would have to do the same.

* * *

 **Carolina Katzung, 58  
** **District Eight Mentor**

It wasn't as bad as they'd been expecting.

Carolina nodded a little as Lander switched the screen off. But Lander was shaking his head. "I don't get it."

"What?"

"Only two tributes. For the last seven years, we've been sending four. Quells are supposed to be something extra. Something special. Something _worse_ than a regular year. This is almost…"

"A relief," Carolina finished.

"Exactly. Why?"

Carolina shrugged. "Could be anything, really. Maybe Eldred's hoping that it'll make a good impression on the outer districts. Maybe it's a signal that things are back to normal." _Back to normal._ Even as she said it, it didn't quite feel right. The Games would never be _normal_. Children dying would never be _normal._ But certainly sending two children into the Games was better than sending four.

Kit shook his head. "So he's hoping if he reduces the number of tributes back to two, no one will notice that we're still sending kids off to die?"

"No, but—" But what? There was no good way to put it. Silas and Eldred were manipulating them into thinking the Games – the normal Games, the Games the way they used to be – weren't so bad. And the worst part was, it was working. She _was_ relieved that they'd only have to mentor two tributes rather than four. That only one or two children from their district would die. She hated it. And, worse, she hated the fact that it made sense. That it seemed like the logical thing to do.

It was Lander who broke the tension. "So, two tributes. That means only two mentors. So who gets to sit this one out?"

It was a good question. For the last seven years, it hadn't been a question of who would have to mentor, but who would have to mentor an extra tribute. They'd quickly developed a system: whoever's tribute made it the farthest in the Games had to mentor two the next year. And whoever's tribute died _first_ got their first pick of the next year's tributes. Maybe it was morbid, but it evened things out a bit.

Evening things out. Maybe that was the idea behind the Quell. Maybe it was exactly what it sounded like – a reminder to the stronger districts, the ones with more Victors, that they weren't any better than the other districts. That they were just as vulnerable to the Capitol. The Quell could have led to a Games where the Careers quickly decimated the others, after all, if not for the second part: no volunteers.

That part wasn't likely to affect any of the outer districts. Volunteers weren't common in Eight, and those they'd had … Well, maybe that part of the twist was an attempt to prevent a fiasco similar to the 41st Games, which had seen _five_ outer-district volunteers – rebels intent on stopping the Games. But nothing like that had happened since. The districts had learned. They'd learned their place. In return, Silas had promised that only two tributes would be required from each district once more, following the Quarter Quell.

So why let up early?

Carolina shook her head, leaving Lander's question unanswered. It didn't make sense. _Eldred_ didn't make sense. President Grisom, President Hyde, even President _Snow_ had made sense. He'd been cruel, certainly, but at least she'd been able to wrap her mind around _why_ he did what he did. Even if his actions had been extreme, at least they'd had a purpose. They'd made sense.

So why didn't this?

* * *

 **Brennan Aldaine, 40  
** **District Twelve Mentor**

They still couldn't have any real idea what to expect.

Brennan glanced at his parents, then nodded to Kyra, District Twelve's newest Victor – their _only_ other Victor – who was seated next to him. Officially, she had her own home in Victor's Village, but it was no secret that she'd moved in with him and his family. His parents, happy to have a child in the house again, had welcomed her with open arms. "Are you all right?" Brennan asked gently.

Kyra nodded. "I think so. That wasn't as bad as I was expecting."

"No. No, it wasn't." Two tributes – the same as any other year. No volunteers, but Twelve had never had a volunteer, anyway. All in all, it didn't seem so bad – at least on the surface. He didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise. To remind her that the Quell was likely to bring other surprises besides the simple twist in the reapings. She'd already been through enough – the longest Games in history. She didn't need to know…

No. No, she _did_ need to know, if she was going to mentor with him. He'd been mentoring alone for so long, the thought of sharing information with a fellow mentor from his district felt a bit odd. But she deserved to know the whole truth. He owed her that. He owed their tributes that. "It's not that simple, though," he added quietly.

Kyra looked up. "What do you mean?"

Brennan hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "Things will be different because it's a Quell – things that might seem little, but things that make a big difference. My arena was a space station, remember?" She nodded. She was too young to remember herself, but she'd seen the tapes. "Well, what you can't always tell from the tapes is that the station's lights made it impossible to tell when one day ended and another began. There were cannons that let us know when tributes had died, but there were no faces in the sky each night, so we had no way of knowing _who_ had died. It was different. Disorienting. And when the ability to make a split-second decision can mean the difference between life and death, when a moment's hesitation can cost you your life, any little thing can affect that."

Kyra nodded. "So we need our tributes to be prepared for that."

"Not those circumstances, necessarily – just the idea that anything could be different. That we can't afford to relax just because the twist won't have much effect on our reaping."

"That makes sense." And it probably did. Talking to Kyra, it was easy to forget just how young she was. Twenty-six days in the arena had taken their toll; she wasn't a child anymore. He couldn't shield her from the difficulties of mentoring. All he could do was make sure she didn't have to face them alone.

Kyra was silent for a moment. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"They had to fly you back all the way from space after your Games, right? That took longer than usual."

"I suppose." He'd been delirious for most of the trip, and unconscious for the rest. "Why?"

"Do you think if they'd gotten you to the Capitol sooner, they might have been able to do more?"

"More?"

Kyra blushed. "About your hand?"

Brennan chuckled softly. Two weeks until the Games, and _that_ was what she was fretting about? His right hand had been clenched firmly into a fist after the final fight of his Games, when he'd choked the life out of his last opponent, Mercury from District Five. They'd had to pry her neck from his hand, and it hadn't opened since. The doctors had blamed nerve damage, and he'd never had any reason to think they could have done more.

"No," he shrugged. "No, I don't think so. The Capitol's best doctors could have been on the shuttle that took me back, and I don't think it would've made a bit of difference. The damage was done the moment I squeezed her neck." He shook his head. "But a hand for a life – that's a small price to pay."

A small price. Certainly less than others had paid. He'd lost the use of a hand. Carolina had lost an eye – although the Capitol had replaced it with a mechanical one. District Six's most recent Victor, Duke, had lost a leg.

But others had lost more. Some Victors had lost their sanity, their sense of purpose, their will to live. That was worse – much worse. He'd been worried, after Kyra's Games, that she had lost something – something more than her childhood or her innocence. But, so far, she was doing as well as he could have hoped. As well as anyone could be expected to.

He just hoped the Quell wouldn't change that.

* * *

 **Imalia Grenier, 25  
** **District Four Mentor**

How could they possibly have any idea what to expect?

Imalia let out a deep breath as the images on the screen faded. The twist didn't seem so bad on the surface. Four tributes was no more than they'd been sending ever since her Games, and there had been _six_ her year. But, eight years ago, additional tributes hadn't been the only difference in the Games. The "extra" tributes had been harshly treated before the Games, dressed in rags during the chariot rides, their heads shaved and their training clothes tattered. During the Games, the tributes had been split into two separate groups, splitting her alliance in half and forcing her and Jarlan to team up with a pair of outer-district tributes.

It had turned out to be a good move, in the end. Indira, one of the girls from Ten, had become her closest ally. Her friend. And her final opponent. They'd made a good pair, something that would never have happened if the tributes hadn't been split into groups.

But the fact remained that they'd known none of that before the reaping. The reaping had only revealed that there would be extra tributes, not what would happen to them. The same was true this year. They knew how many tributes each of the districts would send – and that there would be no volunteers – but nothing about what other twists and turns the Games might hold.

But there was nothing to be done about that. Not yet, at least. Not until they knew who their tributes were. Until then, there was no point in fretting about what might happen. No use worrying about something they had absolutely no control over.

Imalia nodded to her parents as she headed for the door. They didn't need to ask where she was going. She headed straight for the beach. For the water. Just as she was about to wade in, however, she heard a voice. "Imalia!"

Imalia turned; the voice was familiar. Sure enough, Ahab Calder, one of Kalypso's students, came into view along the shore. "Imalia, did you hear that?"

Imalia hid a smile. Of course she'd heard it. The Quarter Quell announcement wasn't exactly something anybody could miss. Even if she'd ventured outside sooner in the hope of avoiding the news, it would have been broadcast throughout the district. But that wasn't really what Ahab was asking. "I heard. I'm sorry."

"No volunteers!" Ahab continued, as if he hadn't even heard her response. "This was my last year! I let Caspian volunteer on his own last year because I didn't want to end up fighting him, and I figured I could always volunteer this year – and for a Quarter Quell. But now…"

"Maybe you'll be picked, anyway," Imalia offered hopefully. But, even as she said it, she knew the odds.

"And if I'm not?"

"Then you live," answered a gentle voice behind them. Imalia turned. Mags. "Is that such a bad thing?" the older Victor asked softly.

Ahab clenched his fists as he turned to leave. Imalia shook her head. "I know you never liked the Career system, but—"

Mags shook her head. "This isn't about the Career system. This is about whether he's going to spend the rest of his life regretting the fact that he didn't get to volunteer for the Games … or whether he's going to move on and live his life."

"And what do you expect him to do with the rest of his life?"

Mags shrugged. "What are you doing now?"

Imalia could feel her face redden. The truth was, she hadn't been entirely sure _what_ to do after returning from the Games. She still wasn't certain, really. She sometimes joined Kalypso in training what Careers remained, but the rest of her time she mostly spent by herself on the beach. But that was the difference between her and Ahab. She could afford to take the time to figure out what she wanted to do, while he was stuck. Stuck in a life of menial labor just to help provide for his family – exactly as she would have been, if not for the Games.

If not for the Games. If not for the opportunity to risk her life just for … what? What was she really doing now? Other Victors had started training academies. A few were raising families. Glenn had taken up writing. Miriam had gone back to school and become a teacher. But none of that seemed like a good fit for her.

Imalia shook the thought from her head. She would have time for that later. Right now … now she was going for a swim. She quickly plunged into the water, and Mags followed. For a while, they could forget. For a while, none of it mattered – the Games, the Quell, the tributes. The Careers who would be disappointed and the non-Careers who would be facing the reaping with a new terror. For a little while, it was all washed away in the ocean waves.

But they both knew that couldn't last.

* * *

" _We but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor: this even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice to our own lips."_


	3. Chance

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Still plenty of room left to submit. Don't be scared away by numbers; quite a few people have submitted more than one. In the meantime, checking back in with four other districts...

* * *

 **Prologue Part Three  
** **Chance**

* * *

 **Stellar Floren, 56  
** **District One Mentor**

"They're taking tesserae."

Stellar glanced up from her dinner, surprised. "Who's taking tesserae?"

Jade smiled a little. "All the kids at the academy – the older ones, at least. The ones who know this is their last chance at the Games. They're taking tesserae and donating the food to the kids at the orphanage – so that they _won't_ take any." He shook his head. "I wouldn't have thought of that."

Stellar nodded. "You didn't have to. Back when we volunteered, things were a bit simpler. We trained. We wanted to volunteer, so we did. There wasn't so much competition."

Jade leaned back a little. "Do you ever wish there had been?"

"Sometimes," Stellar admitted. "If there had been more competition to volunteer, then maybe Thea would never have gone into the Games. Or maybe…" Her sister had volunteered the year before her, and had made it to the finale before Carolina had lured her into the path of a dinosaur mutt. "Maybe she would have been more prepared."

"Maybe," Jade admitted. "But we both know preparation isn't everything. If it was, the most prepared Career would win every year. Everyone knows that doesn't happen."

That was certainly true. The last four Games had been won by a girl from Twelve, a boy from Nine, a boy from Six, and a girl from Eleven – none of them Careers. District One's selected volunteers had all been promising. They had all been well-trained. They had all been prepared. And it hadn't been enough. District One hadn't had a Victor since Jasper's Games, already twelve years ago. And this year…

"Do you think it'll work?" Stellar asked. "Do you think taking tesserae will give them a better chance?"

Jade shook his head. "I doubt it. The odds are too small. But if it makes them feel like they're doing something to increase their chances … well, there's no harm in it. But I doubt we'll get four academy trainees out of it."

Four. Four tributes. District One hadn't been required to send extra tributes into the Games since the last Quarter Quell. They'd sent three that year, just like every other district. All untrained. Unprepared. One of them, a younger girl named Elaine, had been allies with the eventual Victor, Brennan. She'd placed fourteenth – their highest placement that year.

District One wasn't used to placing so low.

"So who else is mentoring this year?" Jasper asked at last, breaking the tension. "The three of us, probably, but who else?"

"Maybe Scarlet," Stellar suggested. "She mentored with us during the last Quell."

Jade nodded. "Or maybe Felix."

Thea chuckled. "Right. Uncle Felix mentoring. That'll be the day."

Stellar smiled. She'd often thought Felix would make a good mentor, but he'd always been content to let them do the job. Maybe now that his kids were grown, they could finally talk him into it.

Really, though, she was just happy his children were too old for the reaping. Normally, they wouldn't have to be worried. No one worried about the reaping in District One; there was always a volunteer ready, as well as several backups in case something unexpected happened. There was usually no danger of an unprepared child going into the Games. But this year…

Stellar shook her head. Felix's children were too old. Her own children were past reaping age – Jasper with a victory under his belt, Thea content to avoid the Games and now safely twenty-seven. Scarlet and Amelia didn't have any children. They were all safe, and, for that, she was grateful.

She'd seen what happened to a Victor who lost a child to the Games.

* * *

 **Duke Ballard, 19  
** **District Six Mentor**

"So who d'ya think it'll be this year?"

Duke swiped a slice of fresh bread from the oven as Nicodemus set the table, ignoring Duke's question. "Oh, c'mon, Nic," Duke prodded. "You gotta have some idea. We both know Vernon can't keep his mouth shut."

Nicodemus shook his head. "Take it easy on Vernon. It's the twenty-fifth anniversary of—"

"Of the year he lost his kid to the damn Games," Duke finished. "Yeah, we all know. That don't give him the right to pick and choose who lives an' dies for the rest of his life, y'know."

Nicodemus smirked. "Of course not. I don't think you're the one he would've picked to live, if he had the choice."

Duke chuckled. "Same to you."

"Fair enough," Nicodemus agreed. "If anything, I'm the worse reminder of his failure. I won the year after he lost Luke."

"No thanks to him."

"Duke."

"What? It's true. Name one thing he did to help you."

"He ignored me. Forced me to stand on my own two feet."

"Feet jokes? Really?" Duke snorted, giving his peg leg a pat as he sat down across from Nicodemus.

Nicodemus shrugged innocently, tapping the side of his wheelchair. "I think I'm entitled to a few."

"Touche." He helped himself to a large portion of the chicken Nicodemus had prepared. "So, you an' me this year?"

"Unless you think Vernon will want your spot," Nicodemus offered.

"Not on yer life. I want our tributes to have a _chance_ of coming home."

"Oh, so you _do_ care."

Duke fell silent for a moment, pretending to be interested in his meal. Nicodemus waited. At last, Duke nodded. "Of course I care. I always care. Probably too much, Nic. These kids he picks – the kids that get reaped – they're just like I was. No one wants 'em. No one cares. So _I_ care, because I'm probably the first person that ever cared for them in their life. And they deserve that. They deserve to have someone try to help 'em – like you did fer me."

Nicodemus nodded. "You're welcome."

"Didn't say thank you."

"And you'll never have to. Thank me by doing what you're already doing. Thank me by caring."

Duke nodded. "That I can do."

* * *

 **Balthasar Doyle, 36  
** **District Two Mentor**

It could be any of them.

Balthasar couldn't hide a smirk as he passed the training academy, still bustling with trainees hard at work. With only a week left before the reaping, the clamor at the academy would generally have died down for a few weeks, allowing the trainers to focus on the two chosen volunteers and a handful of backup choices who would continue training until the reaping. But now … now it could be _anyone_ going into the Games. So they all needed to practice.

It was good news for some of them. The ones who would never have been chosen by Mortimer and Harriet. The ones who were perfectly capable – just not _quite_ the fastest or the strongest or the most intelligent. Now they had a chance. The same chance as anyone else in the district.

The same chance he'd had.

He hadn't been Mortimer's first choice, after all. He never would have been. But the selected volunteer his year had fallen ill shortly before the reaping. Balthasar had stepped in, and Mortimer hadn't been able to find a good reason to refuse him. It was dumb luck that he'd gotten to volunteer at all. Dumb luck that he'd been the one to survive. Since then, Mortimer had always chosen a backup or two – just in case.

"Balthasar!"

Balthasar turned back in the direction of the academy. The voice belonged to Harriet, who quickly jogged over to join him. Balthasar smiled. "What's the rush?"

"I have a favor to ask."

Balthasar raised an eyebrow. "I already agreed to mentor with you." Usually, Harriet and Mortimer claimed both mentoring spots – and he was more than happy to let them do so – but five tributes meant five mentors, and he and Tosh had already agreed. He suspected Ariadne would, as well. She'd given up mentoring years ago, content to cede her spot to Harriet, but one last year wouldn't hurt…

Harriet nodded. "I know. And thank you. But we need one more, and … I want to convince Vester."

"Vester," Balthasar repeated. "You're kidding. He hasn't mentored since—"

"Since the last Quell," Harriet finished. "Which is exactly why it would give District Two an edge. The Capitol would love it. District Two doesn't usually need that sort of publicity, but this year – without Careers – we need all the help we can get. Just imagine: the Hunger Games' very first Victor, back to mentor one last time."

"Try that line on him, and he'll laugh in your face."

"Which is why you're not going to use that line."

"Why me?"

"Because Talitha already told me to go to hell."

Balthasar chuckled. He never seemed to be anyone's first choice. "So what do you want me to tell him?"

Harriet shrugged. "That he has the most experience mentoring tributes who have no training, and therefore has the best chance of bringing one of them home."

Balthasar nodded. The first part was true enough. But the second…

"I know," Harriet agreed. "And I don't know if it'll work, but … well, just try. If he still says no, Ariadne offered to fill the last spot, but I'd rather have him. The _Capitol_ would rather have him."

"And the tributes?"

"Would benefit from the Capitol's enthusiasm. It's a win-win."

"Except for him."

"It's one year. Then he can go back to drinking himself to death during the Games."

Balthasar perked up at that. "I have an idea."

"What? You're going to offer him free drinks?"

Balthasar shook his head. "No. Forty-nine years of Victor's winnings are enough for him to pay for his own drinks. But near the end of the Games eight years ago – that year, he showed up in the Capitol." Balthasar smiled.

"And I think I know why."

* * *

 **Avery Bentham, 23  
** **District Three Mentor**

"You don't have to do this."

Avery looked away. Miriam was trying to be kind. Trying to protect her. And maybe she was right. Maybe she didn't have to – not this year, at least. They were only sending two tributes this year. And the next. And the next. After years of sending three – and four the year after her own Games – it almost felt strange that they would only have to send two tributes.

And only two mentors.

Percival had immediately offered to take one of the spots. He didn't enjoy the Games any more than the rest of them did, but he wasn't about to lose the chance to spend time with his fellow Victors. Miriam had offered to take the other spot. Repeatedly. But Avery had refused, insisting it was her job.

But that wasn't the reason she wanted to go.

Eventually, she would have to. She would have to mentor without Miriam by her side. Maybe it didn't have to be this year. Or the next. But it had to be sometime. Eventually, she would have to be able to do this on her own.

But that wasn't the reason, either.

She didn't want to be alone. Not during the Games. Not yet. If she stayed in District Three – if Percival and Miriam mentored – then she would be staying alone. She wasn't ready for that yet.

But she couldn't tell Miriam that. Miriam and Percival – they thought she was getting better. And there were days when she was. When she felt almost … almost normal. Almost whole again. But there were other days. Days when the memories came flooding back. Nights when the pain and the guilt came bubbling back to the surface. When it was all she could do to remember two words – the advice Vester had given her eight years ago.

 _Not tonight._

Those were the words she reached for, on those nights. The nights when it seemed like it would be easier to give in. Easier to stop fighting. _Give yourself tonight. You can do that much. Just not tonight._

Not tonight.

But the Games … the Games were the worst nights. But for the last eight years, she had spent the Games surrounded by her fellow Victors. Surrounded by people who understood – in their own way – the pain and the guilt and the loss. She wasn't ready to face that alone.

Avery looked up, about to insist – yet again – that, yes, she _did_ have to do this. But then she saw it – the look on Miriam's face. A look she recognized. A look she'd seen in the mirror.

 _Oh._

Avery nodded silently. Miriam didn't have anyone, either. Her family was dead. She had her students, but, as far as someone she could lean on, her fellow Victors were all she had, too. "Why don't we all go, then?" Avery asked. "Two of us to mentor, and the third … well, why not? For company."

For a moment, Miriam said nothing. Maybe the idea of anyone going to the Capitol for the Games when they didn't technically _have_ to was just a bit too strange. But, at last, she nodded.

"I think that's a good idea."

* * *

" _If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me without my stir."_


	4. Safe

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And here we go. *patiently waits for everyone to jump down to the bottom of the page, check the list, and come back* Next chapter will kick off the reapings. In the meantime, a chapter of _Mistakes of the Past_ will be up once I have a chance to edit it (probably sometime tomorrow), and, now that finals and everything are winding down, I should be able to get back to updating more frequently during the summer. But, first, one more hello to some mentors - some old, some new. (Some borrowed, some blue?)

* * *

 **Prologue Part Four  
** **Safe**

* * *

 **Basil Thatch, 17  
** **District Nine Mentor**

At least his brothers would be safe this year.

Basil nodded a little as he glanced around his library. He liked to call it that, even though the shelves contained relatively few books. A few dozen, at any given time. He'd collected all he could, but the truth was that most of the books in District Nine were schoolbooks. He had a few of those – history books that were probably full of lies, literature books containing mostly Capitol propaganda. But even those were better than nothing.

Basil couldn't help a smile. He had been only seven years old during the 40th Games, when three younger boys had hidden together in a library that had come to life, using monsters and armies from the books on the shelves to defend themselves until only the three of them remained. Of course, two of the boys had later died – killed by the third after days of refusing to turn on each other – but the power of the books … that was an image that had never left his mind.

His brothers hadn't really understood that. They thought he was lazy. And maybe he was. But if 'lazy' meant not wanting to work a menial job in the fields for the rest of his life … well, then maybe 'lazy' wasn't such a bad thing. And now, thanks to the Games, he could spend the rest of his life surrounded by his books. Safe from a life of labor and hardship.

And, this year, his brothers were safe from the Games. Lance was twenty-three; he had been safe for a few years now. But his twin brothers Heath and Cornell were finally safe, as well; they had turned nineteen only a few months ago.

He had blamed them, at first – right after his own reaping. He had blamed them for not stepping forward to take his place. Despite being only two years older, they had always been much bigger and stronger than him. He had been one of the smallest, scrawniest tributes in the arena.

But it hadn't mattered.

Now … now he was glad neither of them had taken his place. Because neither of them would have come home. Both were hard workers. Both were young men who played by the rules. They would have wanted to win fairly. Honorably. They wouldn't have fought dirty. They wouldn't have taken shortcuts.

They would have died.

Instead, he was alive. Thirty-four tributes were dead, but he had only personally killed one – a girl who had stumbled across his hiding place, providing him with the supplies necessary to collapse the oversized anthill, killing the others. It was something none of his brothers would have thought of. They would have called that cheating. Maybe they still did. But that didn't matter.

Because cheating had kept him alive.

* * *

 **Violet Levine, 22  
** **District Eleven Mentor**

At least her sister would be safe this year.

Violet turned her glass around in her hands before draining the wine that was left. After spending seventeen days in a vineyard during the Games, maybe she should have been tired of the smell. Maybe she should have been sick of the taste. But she wasn't, because it was better than the alternative.

It was better than remembering.

It was better than remembering the faces of the tributes she and her allies had killed. The three of them had swept through the arena, avoiding the Careers and targeting the smaller, weaker tributes. They had killed without mercy, without hesitation – because that was how the Games were played. Those were the rules. Kill or be killed. And they had all known that.

Those weren't the faces that haunted her the most. Neither were the Careers she had killed in the finale – the Careers who would have eagerly killed her if she hadn't taken the opportunity to kill them first. It had been their lives or hers. That wasn't what haunted her.

No, it was the faces of her allies, Cyril and Fabian. After a few days of hunting, the three of them had been attacked by the Career pack. They had killed Cyril quickly, but Fabian … he had been tougher. He had lasted longer. They had surrounded him, and she … she had run. She could still hear his screams. She could still hear him calling her name. Calling for her to come back, to save him.

She hadn't been able to save him. She couldn't save any of them. Because if either of them had lived, she wouldn't be here. She wouldn't be alive.

Sometimes she wished she wasn't.

But this year … this year, at least her sister would still be here, too. She would be safe. She was nineteen this year. Safe from the reaping. Her older brother had been safe for years, and his own daughter was still too young – only three years old. Too young to really understand what was going on.

For that, Violet envied her.

A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts. It was probably her sister. But the door was locked. And Violet had no intention of opening it. Not tonight. Not the night before the reaping. She just wanted them to leave her alone – just for one night.

They meant well, of course. They just wanted to make sure that she was all right. But she wasn't. And she didn't want them to see her like this. Not tonight. Not when her sister was finally – _finally_ – safe. They should be relieved – not worried about her. She would be fine. She would finish her drink – or maybe a few more – and then go to bed. She would regret it in the morning, but that was nothing new. And the reaping … well, maybe it was better if she wasn't completely sober for that. Maybe it didn't make a difference, now that she didn't have to worry about her sister being reaped.

There was still mentoring to think about, of course. It would be her, Tamsin, and Elijah again – for this year, at least. After this year, only two of them. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe Tamsin and Elijah would want to keep mentoring. Or maybe they would bring home another Victor, and _they_ would want to mentor.

Right. Maybe they would _want_ to mentor.

She couldn't really imagine that.

* * *

 **Glenn Chester, 61  
** **District Ten Mentor**

At least one more child would be safe this year.

Glenn finished another cookie, glancing around the table at Presley and Tess. They only had to send two tributes. Only. As if sending two children off to what was probably their deaths would ever be a good thing. But it was better than sending three, as they had done for years now. And it was better than sending four the year of the 42nd Games. This year, Districts One, Four, and Five were the ones sending four. And District Two was sending _five._

But only two from District Ten – which left them with a decision. "Maybe we should draw for it?" Presley suggested. "Flip a coin? Roll a die?"

Glenn couldn't help a smile. "You two can flip for who gets to stay. I'm going."

Tess raised an eyebrow. "You _want_ to mentor this year? Hell, if anyone has the right to claim a spot at home, it's you. You've been doing this for—"

"Forty-five years," Glenn finished. "This will be my forty-sixth."

"And you're not … tired of it?" Presley ventured.

Glenn nodded. "Of course I am. We're all tired of it. But someone has to go. And getting to know these tributes – these _children_ – there's something special about it." He hadn't always thought of it that way. He had spent years agonizing over being unable to save his tributes. But now … It still hurt. His heart still ached every time he lost a tribute. Every time one of them died on the screen right in front of him. But if he could help even one more of them make it back home, then it would be worth it.

And even those who never made it home, he liked to think that he helped. If his presence as a mentor meant that they saw one more friendly face, heard one more kind voice, in what could very well be their last few days, then how could he stay home? How could he refuse to help? How could he ignore them, their words, their fears, their stories?

Their stories. That was part of the reason he kept insisting on mentoring, even now that he didn't technically have to. Even now that they only needed to send two mentors. He wanted to go with them, because their families were counting on him to preserve their stories – even if the two families didn't know who they were yet.

He collected tributes' memories, their dreams, their fears – whatever they were willing to tell him – and kept them in his books. Maybe it wasn't much, but if it helped one family work through their grief, or if it helped one person somewhere to understand that these were _children_ , that these were people with lives and hopes and memories, just like them … then he needed to do this.

But he didn't tell Presley and Tess that. He didn't want them to feel guilty for not seeing it that way. He knew neither of them liked mentoring. For them, it was simply something that needed to happen. Something they needed to get through. Maybe it was the fact that they were younger – that mentoring was simply a more potent reminder of their own Games. Or maybe his own memories were less troubling. He hadn't enjoyed his time in the Games by any means, and he had _seen_ enough death for a lifetime, but he remained the only Victor who hadn't killed.

"I guess we'll flip for it, then," Tess agreed. And maybe there were worse ways to decide things. Whoever stayed home this year, after all, would probably be the one to mentor with him next year – unless, of course, they managed to bring a tribute home. If not, alternating years between the two of them would be fair.

And both Presley and Tess were usually fair.

* * *

 **Hazel Birnam, 59  
** **District Seven Mentor**

It didn't quite seem fair that their children were safer this year.

Hazel closed her eyes, leaning back in her bed, trying her best to sleep. But she never slept well the night before the reaping. And this year … this year was even more unusual. They'd sent two tributes before, yes – for years before the 42nd Games – but the _reason_ they were only sending two this year felt … wrong. It was almost as if they were being _rewarded_ for the fact that she'd been mentoring for forty-six years and only brought one tribute home. That didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair.

And certainly the districts that were sending more wouldn't think it was fair. Some of them might, of course, if not for the ban on volunteers. The year of the 42nd Games, District Four had been required to send six tributes, and they had _still_ had plenty of volunteers willing – eager, even – to risk their lives. And, yes, one of them had come home … but that still meant that five of them had died. Five teenagers – five _children_ – had volunteered for their deaths.

She would never understand that.

But District Four had worked for years to get to that point. Career districts trained year round to increase their chances of bringing home a Victor. District Two had _seven_ Victors now. Districts One, Four, and Five, each had six. And what was their reward for that success? More death.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it would be easier if she didn't worry about what the other districts thought, how the Career districts would react. Increasingly, tributes from the outer districts saw the Careers as monstrous, as something less than human because of what they perceived as a thirst for blood.

But they weren't animals. And, most of the time, Hazel had found, they weren't motivated by bloodlust or even anger, really. Most of the tributes from Career districts wanted to prove themselves, to bring honor to their districts, or sometimes simply to escape the life of mindless labor that awaited them as miners, stonemasons, fishermen, or factory workers. She didn't fully understand their willingness to _kill_ in order to do it, but she could appreciate the reasons behind it.

And that made it worse.

It was easier to think of them as animals. Easier to think of the tributes from other districts simply as competition. As pieces in the game that needed to be eliminated in order to achieve an objective. But she'd never been able to think of them like that. The tributes from other districts – they were kids, just like her own tributes. They didn't deserve to be there any more than her own tributes did. Any more than she had when she'd been reaped at the age of twelve. She hadn't deserved to be in the Games, but neither did they – none of them. And her tributes usually understood that, too.

Maybe that was why only one of them had come home.

* * *

" _This murderous shaft that's shot hath not yet lighted, and our safest way is to avoid the aim."_

* * *

 **And here's the tribute list. Congrats to everyone who made it in, and my apologies to those who didn't. I ended up with around sixty submissions, so, even with 35 tributes this time around, cuts had to be made. Make sure to check all the districts, as I had to move some tributes around - and even moved one or two to districts that weren't listed as an option. Sorry about that, but there are always a few places that, for whatever reason, just aren't popular.**

 **The tribute page is also up on the blog at _hideyourfires . weebly . com._ Bios will be updated on the blog as tributes are introduced during the reapings.**

 **If there's a different picture you'd like for your tribute or I spelled their name wrong - there always seems to be one, despite my checking - _please_ let me know. Also, if you'd like to update your mentor preference (or anything else) based on the district your tribute ended up in, feel free to let me know that, too.**

 **Tribute List:**

 **District One:  
** Mae Swenson, 13  
Consus Caepio, 15  
Genevieve Odele, 17  
Justus Freeman, 17

 **District Two:**  
Etora Nanovi, 12  
Darian Travers, 14  
Annemae Carty, 18  
Leonardo Choi, 18  
Margo Devereaux, 18

 **District Three:**  
Merrik Haims, 15  
Dinah Peralta, 18

 **District Four:**  
Aleyn Tillens, 15  
Arabel Ford, 15  
Emmett Darsier, 18  
Ronan Callaway, 18

 **District Five:**  
Retro Liu, 12  
Vashti Rii, 16  
Macauley Tierney, 17  
Elliot Stone, 18

 **District Six:**  
Lena Khatri, 16  
Charu Varma, 18

 **District Seven:**  
Nephelle Sorena, 17  
Thomas Elliot, 18

 **District Eight:**  
Mariska Vasile, 16  
Klaudia Almasy, 18

 **District Nine:**  
Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
Triticum Bulgur, 14  
Aven Faraday, 16

 **District Ten:**  
Connor Sawyer, 15  
Skyton Tate, 16

 **District Eleven:**  
Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
Kilian Romane, 17  
Shanali Theisen, 17

 **District Twelve:**  
David Abadi, 14  
Orphelia Mykonos, 17


	5. District One: Unprepared

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Writing normal reapings again felt a bit weird ... but a good sort of weird. I'm one of those strange writers who actually enjoys reapings, so here we go. Thank you to _CreativeAJL_ , _TheEngineeringGames_ , _Flintlightning_ , and _BamItsTyler_ for Consus, Genevieve, Justus, and Mae, respectively.

* * *

 **District One  
** **Unprepared**

* * *

 **Jasper Floren, 30  
** **Victor of the 38th Hunger Games**

He'd never felt so unprepared for the Games before.

Jasper forced a smile as he and his family headed for the district square. He hadn't expected to be this nervous. But, now that it was actually time for the reaping, he was more anxious than he'd been even before his _own_ Games. Because now he had no idea what to expect.

For the last few decades, reapings in District One had been a mere formality. Volunteers were selected weeks in advance, and incidents during the reapings themselves were few and far between. The tributes knew each other – and their mentors – long before the Games. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses. How to work as a team – and when to strike out on their own. This year…

This year would be different. But _they_ couldn't appear any different. The district looked up to them. Their tributes would be looking to them to set an example. They had to treat this like any other year. Any other Games. Any other tributes.

But these _weren't_ any other tributes. For the first time in years, they had no idea who their tributes would be in advance. But at least his parents had _some_ experience. Jade had mentored untrained tributes for a few years before Career training really took hold, and Stellar had mentored during the last Quarter Quell, which had also forbidden volunteers. Still, it had been twenty-five years since then. Twenty-five years since anyone in their district had needed to worry about being forced into the Games against their will.

"It'll be all right." Jade laid a hand gently on his son's shoulder as they approached the square. "We'll work through this together – the four of us."

 _The four of us._ Felix and his family joined them as they neared the square. Felix smiled warmly, ruffling Thea's hair. "Take care of my family while I'm away, you hear?"

Thea swatted his hand away. "Only if you take care of mine."

Felix grinned. "More likely, they'll be taking care of me." He turned to Jade. "You sure you wouldn't rather have Scarlet?"

Jade shook his head. "Scarlet and Amelia both declined – and Scarlet said you've been dodging your turn the longest."

Felix smirked. "Thirty-four years. I guess it's time I gave it a try. But don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jade assured him, and the four of them headed for the stage while Thea and Felix's family slipped into the audience, which was unusually silent. Anxious. Jade stared out at the faces – at the frightened twelve and thirteen year olds, who usually wouldn't have to worry. At the older trainees who were waiting. Hoping. Who knew this was their last chance at the Games. Normally, they selected volunteers weeks in advance, but this year, they'd agreed to wait until after the quell twist was announced. And now he was glad they had. The two eighteen-year-olds they'd been leaning towards selecting would never know how close they had come. Maybe it was better that way.

As the teenagers continued to trickle in, Amelia and Scarlet arrived and took their places onstage, smiling and waving at the rest of them, then at the audience. Six Victors – a number second only to District Two. Normally, that was something to be proud of, but this year … this year it meant that they were sending _four_ tributes – something District One had never been required to do. _A reminder that every success brings a greater danger._

It still didn't quite seem fair – being punished for doing well. For having success in the Games. But he was sure there was a reason for it, in the end.

There was always a reason.

Maybe that reason was as simple as reminding them of how good they usually had it. Even their escort, Ishmael Scimone, was unusually quiet as he took the stage. The crowd cheered. He waved. But something was off. Something was different.

This year, his job actually _meant_ something.

Jasper's gaze strayed to the single reaping bowl onstage. Normally, the names drawn out of the reaping bowl meant nothing. This year, there would be nothing to save the children whose names were drawn. No volunteers to step forward. Of the four names that Ishmael drew out of the bowl, at least three would die – without any choice in the matter.

Just as the crowd was starting to murmur, however, Stellar stepped up to the microphone. "Welcome, everyone, to the reaping for this year's Quarter Quell!" She raised her hands for applause, and the crowd quickly obliged. "This year, District One has the special honor of sending _four_ tributes to compete in the Games – an honor because it demonstrates the success we've had in the past, and our continued commitment to our district and to the Capitol. So, Ishmael, if you'll do the honors…" She stepped aside as the crowd cheered again, this time applauding Ishmael, who flashed Stellar a grateful smile before approaching the reaping bowl.

Stellar took her seat as Ishmael swirled the papers – hoping, Jasper knew, for the name of one of the academy's trainees. Someone who would be eager – or, at least, prepared – to enter the Games. So many of the older trainees had been taking tesserae. Maybe it would pay off. Maybe…

"Justus Freeman!"

Jasper hid a sigh of relief at the sound of a familiar name. The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a simple black suit. He was tall and athletic, with dark skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. The look of surprise on his face quickly gave way to a smile as he made his way to the stage, taking the stairs two at a time. He gave the crowd a wave before holding out his hand to Ishmael, who shook it. Justus quickly took the microphone. "Thank you for the opportunity to represent this district."

Jasper nodded as Justus took a step back. Short. Polite. To the point. If his reaction set the tone for the rest of the reaping, maybe this wouldn't be so hard, after all. Ishmael, too, seemed a bit more relaxed as he drew another name from the bowl. "Mae Swenson!"

This time, it was the thirteen-year-old section the parted around a lanky girl in a black and white polka dot dress, a black belt, and white stockings. She was dark-skinned, and her long, black hair was neatly brushed. For a moment, nothing happened. The girl simply kept staring off into the distance, as if she hadn't heard her name. But, after a moment, she seemed to notice the people – all staring at her. Watching. Waiting. Her hands flew to her ears, and she began rocking back and forth. Swaying this way and that. Her lips were moving – maybe muttering something to herself.

Jasper glanced over at the Peacekeepers, who were still standing off to the side, waiting. How long had it been since they'd had to step in during a reaping? By the time they started to make their way towards the girl, several other girls were already coaxing her forward into the aisle. The girl followed the Peacekeepers to the stage, but stopped, flustered, when she saw Justus, who was already holding out his hand for her to shake. "Hello. My name is Mae," she muttered, grabbing hold of one of his fingers for a few seconds before letting go and turning stiffly back towards the audience, her dark brown eyes fixed on the stage at her feet.

But Justus wasn't deterred. "Hello, Mae. Thank you for joining me in representing District One." He turned back to Ishmael. "And who else will have the honor of joining us?"

Ishmael was already reaching into the bowl. "Genevieve Odele!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted again, this time around a girl in a light grey pantsuit, light pink shirt, and low black heels. She was tall and thin, with light brown skin, long black hair, and dark brown eyes. For a moment, she simply stared, her mouth hanging open as her eyes darted from Ishmael to Jasper to her two district partners. Finally, she took a step forward, and then another. Her lips began to curl upwards a little, and, by the time she made her way to the top of the stairs, she'd managed to smile. A small, nervous smile, but it was better than nothing.

Genevieve quickly shook hands with Justus, then extended her hand to Mae, who reluctantly grasped her finger quickly before letting go and taking a step back. Genevieve then turned to Ishmael, who shook her hand quickly, and then to each of the Victors in turn. By the time she got to Jasper, her smile seemed a bit firmer, but her hand was still trembling and cold as he shook it. Jasper nodded towards the audience, and Genevieve turned back towards them, giving a little wave as Ishmael reached into the bowl one last time.

"Consus Caepio!"

There were sighs of relief from the younger teens and disappointed grumbling from the older ones at the sound of the final name. The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a light blue button-down shirt and dark blue pants. He was tall for his age – almost as tall as Justus – with pale skin, curly dirty blonde hair, and sky blue eyes. But it was his mouth that caught Jasper's eye. He seemed to be almost … laughing. Yes, he _was_ , Jasper realized as the boy continued to chuckle, still not making a move towards the stage.

After a few moments, the Peacekeepers stepped closer, and one of them put a hand on the boy's arm. The boy quickly shrugged it away. "Let go of me," he grumbled, finally making his way towards the stage. He was still chuckling to himself as he climbed the stairs, but he managed to shake the others' hands before crossing his arms across his chest, still laughing wryly.

Ishmael decided to make the most of it. "Well, we're delighted to have you, too, Consus. District One, your tributes for this year's Quarter Quell! Justus, Mae, Genevieve, and Consus!"

The crowd cheered – more out of habit than anything else. These weren't the sort of tributes they were used to. But they were the tributes they had. The tributes that their hopes rested on this year.

Jasper watched silently as the cameras switched off and the tributes were led away. The crowd began to disperse, leaving the Victors alone onstage. Jade turned to the rest of them. "So, Jasper, what do you think?"

Jasper tensed. "What do I think?"

Jade nodded. "You spend the most time at the academy these days. Who do you know? Thoughts on who should mentor whom?"

 _Why are you asking me?_ But, deep down, he already knew the answer to that. It was only a matter of time before he wouldn't have his parents mentoring with him every year. Once they brought home another Victor, Jade and Stellar would probably take a step back, and _he_ would be the senior mentor. The one calling the shots.

 _Just think._ "I know most of them. Justus' older sister is one of our trainers – works mostly with the younger students. He was at the top of his a few years back, but lately he hasn't been as focused."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Nothing in particular that I know of. Sometimes people just realize that volunteering isn't really for them, and they back off – let the more serious trainees take the lead. He wouldn't have been our choice for a volunteer, but he's capable."

Stellar nodded. "And the older girl – Genevieve. I've seen her around the academy."

Jasper smiled a little. "Not training. Flirting. She's got her eye on a few of our top prospects. But she may have picked up a thing or two."

"And the younger two?" Jade asked.

"Both of them have older siblings who are training. I've seen Mae around, training with the younger students. Consus … I don't think so. His older sister has some promise, but I haven't met him before."

"I'll take Consus, then," Stellar offered. "Jade?"

"I'll take Mae."

Jasper couldn't help a look of surprise. Were they trying to help him? Offering to take the younger tributes so he could focus on the older ones? The ones who had more promise? Or was this simply an acknowledgement of the fact that at least they had _some_ experience with untrained tributes? He glanced over at Felix, who shrugged. "Your call. You've done this before."

 _You've done this before._ Did that mean he should take Justus, the one who actually had the most training? Or maybe…

"I'll take Genevieve," he blurted out before he could change his mind.

Felix smiled a little. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"All right, then," Felix agreed. "Guess we're ready."

Ready. He wasn't ready. None of them were ready. But, as they rose and headed for the train, Jasper managed a smile. Maybe their tributes weren't the most prepared, but it could have been worse.

It could have been a _lot_ worse.

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17**

They would all assume he was the most prepared.

Justus took a deep breath as his parents finally left the room, leaving him alone with his sister, Aurora. "I know this isn't really what you wanted," she offered quietly – too quietly for their parents to hear, even if they were listening.

Not that it was really a secret. He'd decided a few years ago that he wouldn't volunteer for the Games. Training had been exciting, at first – the thrill, the lure of glory, the promise of excitement in the Games. But after seeing tribute after tribute fail to come back, year after year, some of that enthusiasm had begun to fade. He didn't want to die. He wanted to do something with his _life._

He still did.

Justus clenched his fists. It was his own damn fault. It hadn't been his idea to start taking out tesserae, but he had been the one to spread the word around the older trainees. It had seemed like a natural thing to do. And, naturally, he had been expected to take out his share, as well. He could have said no, but then his friends, his classmates, his fellow trainees – they would have wondered why. Why he wasn't brave enough to take the same risk as them.

Aurora leaned forward a little. "Look, maybe this is a good thing. It's not what you would have chosen, but … Justus, you always had a knack for training. Any other year, there would be more competition, but this year…"

Justus nodded. He knew what she was trying to say. This year, most of the other tributes – even the others from Career districts – wouldn't have much training. He might very well be the most experienced Career in the arena. Certainly that was true among his district partners. "I'd trade that for an actual Career pack," he muttered.

But was that true? If the rest of the Careers were as unprepared as his district partners, whatever Career pack there _was_ would probably look to him for guidance. For leadership. Any other year, he might have had to compete for leadership of the pack. Any other year…

Any other year, he wouldn't be here. But that didn't matter now. He was here. He had no other choice. All he could do was make the best of it.

"Mae has some training," Aurora offered.

"Mae? The one who can't even shake hands right?"

Aurora let out a chuckle. "Planning to shake hands much in the arena?"

"The sponsors—"

"Will be hoping for _some_ sort of Career pack. Talk it over with whichever mentor you end up with. Watch the other reapings; see what your options are. But don't write her off just because she's a bit … off. She might surprise you."

"As long as that surprise isn't a knife in the back."

"Fair point. Remember, I want _you_ home." She gave him one last hug as a knock on the door reminded them their time was almost up. "Be smart. Be careful. We're all rooting for you."

Justus nodded as she left. That was probably true. The rest of the district probably realized it, too – that he was their best chance.

He just hoped they were right.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17**

She hadn't been prepared for them all.

Genevieve forced a smile as her parents and older brother left, only to be replaced by her friends – all grinning excitedly. Anastasia was the first to enter, quickly followed by Rena, Cass, and Lucia. "I can't believe it!" Lucia exclaimed. "You're actually going to be in the Games!"

"You're going to the Capitol!" Rena gushed.

"You're going to have so much _fun_!" Anastasia insisted.

Fun. Any other year, she would have agreed. The Games _were_ fun. Fun to _watch_. And here in District One, she and her friends were usually safe. Free to enjoy the thrill of the Games without having to worry about actually being _in_ them. Without having to worry about dying.

 _Don't think about that._ Not right now. Not yet. Her friends were still enjoying themselves. Still basking in the excitement of one of their best friends being chosen for the Games. It was supposed to be an _honor_. A privilege. To be chosen for the Games was an honor reserved for the best, the strongest, the smartest. The ones who worked the hardest, who _earned_ the right to volunteer.

But she hadn't earned it.

 _Stop it._ She hadn't earned the right to be here, but neither had her district partners. The younger two certainly weren't the tributes the Victors would have chosen. Even Justus … would he have been their choice – either this year or the next? Maybe. But probably not. There were so many trainees. So many who would have been perfectly capable.

But she had been chosen, instead. How had _she_ been chosen? So many of the older trainees had been taking tesserae. She had never needed to. Her name had only been in the bowl six times. Only six slips out of thousands. Tens or even hundreds of thousands. And Ishmael had somehow found _her_ name.

"Are you all right?" Anastasia's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Aren't you excited?"

Excited. Right. She was supposed to be excited. "Of course." She hoped her smile was convincing. Hoped it would be enough to satisfy them. "It's just a bit … unbelievable."

Rena beamed. "It sure is. The _one_ year non-trainees have a shot at getting in the Games, and _you're_ the one they pick! What are the odds?"

Small. The odds were small. So small, she hadn't even been worried – not really – that her name might be called. She hadn't been concerned – for herself, or for her friends. Genevieve glanced from one to another, their smiles barely hiding a hint of jealousy. If one of _them_ had been chosen, instead, would she be smiling at them? Would she be acting exactly the same if one of her friends was days away from fighting for her life?

It was almost a relief when they left. Genevieve leaned back in her chair, fingering the gold choker necklace. Usually, she welcomed their presence – _anyone's_ presence. But now … now the silence was almost better. Better than their smiles, their eagerness to see her in the Games. Maybe it hadn't really sunk in yet – what was about to happen. Maybe they didn't realize.

Or maybe they just didn't care.

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15**

It was his own fault he was unprepared.

Consus shook his head as the door closed behind his father and older sister. Neither of them had said it, but the thought had been clear in his father's eyes. He was the one who had chosen not to train at the academy like his sister. He had refused to join his classmates, no matter how much his father had insisted that training was his duty. He hadn't wanted to fight. Hadn't wanted to kill.

He hadn't wanted to _die_.

Consus glanced up as the door opened again, and his friend Eris made her way past the Peacekeeper standing by the door. He started to stand, but she shook her head and immediately took a seat next to him, instead. "This … this isn't fair," she blurted out before she could stop herself, barely holding back her tears.

She was right. It wasn't fair. Of course, the Games were never really _fair_ , but District One was usually spared the worst of it. He'd never wanted to be a Career himself, but he couldn't deny the fact that the Career system protected people who _didn't_ want to be in the Games. People who were usually safe from the reapings because there would always be a volunteer willing to step in.

People like him.

But not this year. This year, they were being treated like any other district. And maybe that _was_ fair. But it certainly didn't feel fair. Maybe it never did – for the tributes who weren't prepared, anyway. Consus gripped Eris' hand tightly. "I can't do this."

Eris shook her head emphatically. "Yes, you can. The others probably don't have any training, either – or, at least, not much. One of them's younger than you—"

"It's not just them. There are thirty-five of us. _Thirty-five_. Only one of us is going to survive. You really think it's going to be me?"

Eris looked away, silent. Consus swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's not your fault. I just…"

"It's all right," Eris said softly. "It's not your fault, either. It's not anyone's fault. It's just … really bad luck."

Bad luck. Just bad luck that _his_ name had been called at the reaping, rather than his sister's. She would have wanted this. Hundreds of hopeful trainees at the academy would have wanted this. But they hadn't been chosen. He had. Just his luck.

Eris squeezed his hand gently. "I hope it's going to be you. I hope you…"

"Don't die?" Consus finished.

"Yeah."

Consus nodded. Neither of them wanted to say the rest. Neither of them wanted to point out that, in order to _not_ die, he would have to kill. That was something he'd never wanted to do. Something he had never thought he would _have_ to do.

"I hope so, too," Consus agreed quietly as the Peacekeepers opened the door again. He wrapped Eris tightly in one last hug before finally letting go, then looked away as she left. He couldn't watch. He didn't want her to go. He didn't want any of this. He had _never_ wanted this.

But now he didn't have a choice.

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13**

She wasn't prepared for this.

Mae paced silently across the room, fingering the diary her mother had given her. They had already left. Her parents. Her brothers and sisters. James and Nora. Quincy and Ivette. Her baby sister, Jubilee. They were all gone. And being alone was usually better. It was usually a relief. But now…

Now, being alone with her thoughts wasn't as comforting as it usually was. Because none of those thoughts were pleasant. Soon, she would be going to the Capitol – and then the Games. And she wasn't ready.

Yes, she had some training. She'd joined her siblings at the academy mostly to appease her parents, because it was something that they considered 'normal.' Whatever that meant. As far as she could tell, there wasn't anything normal about the desire to hack other people to bits, but she'd never bothered to argue that point with them. Simply studying at the academy wasn't going to do her any harm.

And now, it turned out, it might actually do her some good. She certainly wouldn't have _chosen_ to volunteer this year. Not when she was only thirteen. Not when there would be extra tributes. But now that she _was_ here, maybe it was a good thing she had at least a little training. At least a little experience.

It certainly wasn't going to hurt.

Mae jumped a little as the door creaked open. "Sorry if I startled you," Jade apologized. "I just came to see if you're all right – and to make sure everyone gets to the train in one piece."

"Because we don't want to start cutting each other to pieces until the Games start," Mae finished, avoiding Jade's gaze. "Are you my mentor?"

"Pardon?"

"My mentor. For the Games. That's what I would do – pair the most experienced mentors with the tributes you assume have the least experience." She glanced up at his face, then back at her diary. Then back again. His expression almost looked like one on the page. "You're … surprised."

"Pleasantly surprised," Jade agreed. "I wasn't expecting you to want to talk about strategy quite this soon. Yes, I'm your mentor."

"Good."

"Good?"

"You're mentored younger tributes before. One of your tributes during the Ninth Games was my age. The year before that, one of them was twelve." She remembered that. Tapes of previous Games were required viewing at the academy. Even footage from much older Games could end up being beneficial. "But neither of them won."

"No, but younger tributes _have_ won."

"A few times."

"All it takes is once."

Maybe he was right. She didn't need the odds to be in her favor _every_ year. Just now. Just this year. Just once.

But it wasn't all about luck. She would have to play smart, she reminded herself as she followed Jade out the door. The Games didn't always go to the strongest or the fastest. Sometimes they went to the smartest. The cleverest. The one who took everyone by surprise.

Maybe she had a chance, after all.

* * *

" _Being unprepared, our will became the servant to defect; which else should free have wrought."_


	6. District Two: Hope

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

 **Note:** Thank you to _SomeDays_ , _Greybeard mmmmmm3_ , _bobothebear_ , _AmericanPi_ , and _wazowskis_ for Annemae, Darian, Etora, Leo, and Margo, respectively.

* * *

 **District Two  
** **Hope**

* * *

 **Toshiro Koyama, 25  
** **Victor of the 43rd Hunger Games**

He hoped this year would live up to the hype.

Tosh drummed his fingers on the arm of his seat, waiting for the others to arrive. The square was slowly starting to fill with people – some nervous or anxious, but most excited. Even with five tributes this year, the younger teens knew their odds were low. And the older ones were prepared. Or, at least, _most_ of them were prepared. Some of them. _Enough_ of them. Enough to give their district a good chance.

 _Five_ good chances, actually. Five out of thirty-five. One seventh of the tributes in the arena would be from District Two. All things being equal, that was a fourteen percent chance that someone from District Two would be coming home. Compared to their usual two tributes, that was impressive.

And, of course, all things _weren't_ equal. Even without volunteers, there was still a greater chance that a tribute from District Two would have _some_ level of training, _some_ preparation for what they might face in the arena. And perhaps just as importantly, their district's reputation for loyalty would help _any_ tribute from Two – training or no – as long as they didn't do anything to directly undermine the assumption that they supported the Capitol.

And that reputation was something the Victors were doing everything they could to project – especially this year. There had even been rumors that Balthasar had finally talked Vester into mentoring one last time. Whether that would be directly helpful for their _tributes_ , Tosh wasn't sure. But it would almost certainly give them a boost with the Capitol audience. Despite Vester's open criticism of the Career system, even he knew better than to appear hostile towards the Capitol itself.

And no one in the Capitol would question his loyalty. Even after forty-nine years, no one would forget the tribute who had promised a slow and painful death to any rebels in the arena, and who'd had no qualms about delivering on that promise. No matter how hard Vester might try to erase that image, that was all the Capitol audience would see. Because that was all those in charge of the Games would _let_ them see.

Tosh grinned as the other Victors slowly began to arrive, each one greeted by thunderous applause despite the tension in the crowd. Harriet and Mortimer arrived together, smiling and waving at the audience. Even they looked a bit more tense, however. Usually they would already know exactly who their tributes would be. They would have chosen their tributes together, weeks before the reaping. They would have an extensive list of back-up choices prepared. They would have decided who would be mentoring whom, and maybe even consulted with their counterparts in One or Five to begin discussing strategies.

None of that applied this year. Everything was different. But the two of them were doing their best to hide it. And Balthasar even seemed to be enjoying it, grinning broadly as he took the stage, high-fiving the other Victors. Tosh nodded a little as he returned the gesture. Maybe Balthasar's enthusiasm was a little over-the-top, but it was a good balance for what was certainly coming.

Sure enough, Ariadne arrived with considerably less excitement. The crowd still cheered, and she still smiled, but there was something almost formulaic about it. To her, this was just another reaping to get through. She had offered to mentor if it was necessary, but if Balthasar had, in fact, convinced Vester…

As usual, Vester was the last to arrive, with Talitha at his side. District Two's pair of pre-Career Victors always looked a little out of place onstage with the others, but that didn't seem to matter to the crowd – at least not this year. They practically roared with excitement – the sort of excitement that, whether he liked it or not, only the Victor of the First Hunger Games could inspire. Vester shook his head in disapproval before grudgingly taking a seat next to Talitha. "Let's get this over with."

Tosh glanced over at Balthasar. Did that mean that he had agreed, and that he wanted to get the Games over with? Or did it mean that he wanted to get the _reaping_ over with so that he could go back to … whatever it was he usually did after the reapings were through? Balthasar shrugged. Maybe he hadn't even gotten a clear answer. Maybe he'd been hoping that if he spread the word that Vester was going to be joining them, he might be able to talk him into actually doing it.

District Two's escort, Carenza Lesage, certainly seemed to hope that was the case. She was beaming as she took the stage, flashing a smile in Vester's direction as she called, "Thank you soooooo much for joining us!" Vester couldn't hide a cringe of distaste, but she flatly ignored it as she turned towards the crowd. "Welcome to the reaping for the Second Quarter Quell!"

Sure enough, the audience burst into applause once more as Carenza approached the single reaping bowl at the center of the stage. "I'm so excited!" she crooned. "All these names – and whoever's lucky enough to be picked actually gets to _go_ this year." She giggled as she plunged her hand into the bowl. "And our first lucky tributes is … Darian Travers!"

The crowd quieted a little as the fourteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a red suit and black dress pants. He was tall for his age and muscular, with medium brown skin and slicked-back black hair. He nodded a little as he stepped into the aisle, a couple friends offering pats on the back. Tosh nodded. He was young, but old enough to realize that making a fuss wouldn't do him any good.

In fact, as he neared the stage, a smile found its way to the boy's face, his dark brown eyes studying each of the Victors in turn. Balthasar broke into a smile as the boy locked eyes with him. "This one's mine."

Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to wait and see—"

Balthasar shook his head. "Nope. Mine. As long as that's all right with you, kid."

Darian hesitated a moment, clearly a bit flustered, before nodding. "Fine with me."

Carenza giggled. "Well, well, then. One down, four to go. Let's see who we've got next." She swirled the papers around a little before plucking another and unfolding it. "Annemae Carty!"

This time, it was the eighteen-year-old section that parted around a girl in a light blue dress and white stockings. She was a little shorter than Darian, with shoulder-length platinum blonde hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes. "Great," she muttered, barely loud enough for the microphones to pick up her voice as she stepped into the aisle, running her hand through her hair before making her way to the stage.

As she neared the stage, however, something caught her eye. Someone in the crowd, maybe. She clenched her fists tightly and made her way quickly up the stairs, glancing around at the Victors. Maybe she was hoping that someone would volunteer immediately to be her mentor, as Balthasar had. No one spoke up, but Harriet nodded slightly towards the crowd, a silent reminder that, right now, the audience was more important. There would be plenty of time to figure out mentors later.

Carenza, too, quickly refocused, reaching deep into the reaping bowl for the next slip of paper. "Etora Nanovi!"

There were a few mutters as the twelve-year-old section parted around a girl in a red knee-length dress and black flats. She was shorter than the other two and lean, with dark skin and curly, shoulder-length brown hair. A smirk found its way to her face as she made her way towards the stage, her gold bracelet and hoop earrings bouncing a little as she bounded up the stairs.

Still smiling, she offered her hand first to Annemae, who hesitated a moment before shaking it, and then to Darian, who not only shook her hand but clapped her on the shoulder, as well. Etora returned the gesture, but then stepped away crisply, glancing up at Carenza. Waiting to see who the next tribute might be.

"Margo Devereaux!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, this time around a petite girl in a pink silk dress with cap sleeves and a plunging neckline. Her high heels added a few inches to her height, but she was still only a little taller than Etora. Her chestnut brown hair reached just past her chin, and her skin was pale and soft.

For a moment, she didn't move. Her green eyes darted back and forth, finally coming to rest on a man in the crowd. Maybe her brother; he certainly wasn't old enough to be her father. He was crying silently, and, for a moment, the girl looked like she might break down crying right along with him. But, slowly, she started to make her way to the stage, keeping her tears in check.

Carenza quickly picked up the slack. "Well, hello, dear. That makes two eighteen-year-olds. My, my, my, we must be quite lucky this year. But we've still got _one_ more. Let's hear it for … Leonardo Choi!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted one last time, this time around a small, slight boy in a white collared shirt, black dress pants, and a black tie. He had olive skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes that were quickly filling with tears. He was shaking like a leaf, but made no move towards the stage, even as the Peacekeepers started to stir at the edge of the crowd.

Tosh shifted a little in his seat. He was sure Mortimer had asked the Peacekeepers not to step in unless it was necessary. Having to drag a tribute to the stage was a bad image for any Career district. But if the boy wasn't going to make it up on his own…

Just as Tosh was considering signaling to them, however, Vester rose slowly from his seat and made his way down the stairs. A raised hand was enough to keep the Peacekeepers from moving in, and he quickly approached the boy, who was still shaking as Vester put an arm around his shoulders. Slowly, the pair of them made their way towards the stage, Vester whispering something too quietly for the microphones to pick up. The boy nodded a little as they climbed the stairs, and wiped his tears away before turning to his district partners and offering his hand.

While the tributes continued to shake hands, Talitha laid a hand on Vester's arm. "If you want, I can—"

Vester shook his head, cutting her off. "No. I'll take Leo." He turned to Mortimer. "I hope you're happy."

Mortimer shrugged, unusually calm. "Perfectly. Tosh?"

"Yes?"

"Three left – take your pick."

Tosh studied the girls quietly for a moment, and, one by one, they all turned to look at him. But it was the youngest who had caught on the quickest – who had been aware enough to realize what was going on. That was all he needed. "I'll take Etora."

Mortimer barely raised an eyebrow. "Harriet?"

Harriet didn't miss a beat. "I'll take Margo."

Mortimer turned to Annemae. "I guess that leaves me with you. I'll see you all on the train." And, without another word, he turned and left.

Tosh shook his head as the tributes were herded off towards the Justice Building. "What was that all about?" he asked Harriet. "I don't think I've ever seen Mortimer this ... relaxed."

Harriet shrugged. "Don't mind him. He's been in a bad mood ever since the Quell was announced. He'll come around eventually."

Vester shook his head as they headed for the train. "I wouldn't count on it."

Balthasar raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Remember what happened the last time we had an untrained tribute in the Games?"

Balthasar shrugged. "Sure. Eight years ago. I finally got to mentor."

"Because he refused," Vester finished. "Didn't want to mentor anyone he hadn't personally trained and selected. He knows he can't outright refuse this year – not with this number of tributes, and certainly not without drawing unwanted attention for refusing to mentor during a Quarter Quell. But I wouldn't count on him being as … invested as usual."

"And you?" Tosh asked.

Vester smiled a little. "What about me?"

Tosh shrugged. "Mortimer sees this Quell as an example of why we need the Career system. He's convinced they're all going to die, so there's no reason for him to care. But you … you've opposed the Career system for years. If we manage to bring a tribute home _this_ year, of all years, you have your proof that we don't _need_ the Career system in order to win."

Vester couldn't help a chuckle. "Is that what you think?"

"It makes sense."

"A victory this year won't halt the Career system. It's too late for that. And while it _would_ be refreshing to have another Victor who's not a trained killer … no, that's not why I'm here."

"Then why?"

Vester shook his head. "These tributes, Tosh – even the older ones, even the Careers, even the ones who have convinced themselves that this is what they want – in the end, they're still so young. They're still children, really. Some day, I hope, you'll be as old as I am. And when you're that old, when you've _seen_ as much as I have … you can't just stand there and watch children cry."

Tosh nodded a little. "That's why you helped him. Leo."

"Yes."

"And Avery," Balthasar added. "That's why you came to the Capitol eight years ago during the Games. That's it? You just couldn't _help_ yourself?"

"I don't expect you to understand," Vester shrugged. "But when you've done what I have – when you're even partly responsible for the horrors of the Games – and you have a chance to do something that's good, something that's truly, honestly, irrevocably _good_ … it's hard to resist."

Tosh shook his head as they boarded the train. Vester was too hard on himself, but maybe that was to be expected. Maybe the Games _had_ been that bad once. But that was why they had Careers in the first place. Mortimer was a bit of a grump sometimes, but he was right. Training volunteers was much better than sending tributes into the Games unprepared. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't guarantee victory, but it was better than doing nothing.

 _Anything_ was better than doing nothing.

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12**

She hoped they couldn't tell how nervous she was.

Etora clenched her fists tightly as her parents, brothers, and sister finally left. None of them had said it out loud, but she could practically feel the disappointment coursing through the room. Not disappointment that their little girl had been reaped – not really. Disappointment that, even though she'd been training for years, she probably wouldn't be coming home.

Etora glanced down at the locket in her hands. A locket that bore the Nanovi family crest. Her mother had given it to her without saying a word, but, in her mother's eyes, she had already failed to live up to that name. Her parents, high-ranking business partners in District Two's largest mining operation, had always seen her training as a waste of time. Why risk her life for something that could be gained through intelligent maneuvering, trading favors, and cutthroat deals? The Games were useful because they brought attention and profit to District Two, but nothing else.

They didn't understand. They had never understood. Training had given her something they never had – something they never _could_. Her trainers recognized her talent. The other students respected her. At the academy, she was one of the _best_ – something she had never been at home.

Or, at least, she was one of the best for her _age_ , Etora reminded herself, turning the locket over in her hands. But she wasn't going into the arena with other people her age. District Two alone was sending three eighteen-year-olds. And while she didn't recognize any of the older ones from the academy, they might still have an edge when it came to sheer physical strength simply because of their size.

And Darian … She'd seen him at the academy a few times recently. But she'd also heard rumors. Rumors that he'd killed a fellow trainee over a minor disagreement. Rumors that the instructors were considering banning him from the academy.

All of that, of course was rather moot now. If he was already a killer, so what? Everyone in the Games was eventually a killer if they wanted to survive. And banning him from the academy would do nothing now. Still, maybe that was why Balthasar had…

 _Cut it out._ Balthasar's opinion didn't matter. Tosh had picked _her_. Maybe he wasn't one of the most experienced mentors, but at least he helped out at the academy occasionally. Maybe he'd seen her there. Maybe he'd been impressed.

Or maybe he'd simply felt sorry for her.

Etora shook her head. Pity wouldn't do her any good. Pity didn't win the Games. It sometimes kept tributes alive through sponsor gifts or compassionate allies, but, eventually, those things ran their course. The only thing that really lasted – that really _helped_ – was a tribute's own attitude. What they were willing to do to survive.

No. No, that wasn't the only thing. She was _willing_ to do whatever it took, but the Games weren't always a question of what tributes were willing to do. Sometimes it came down to what they were _able_ to do. What they were _prepared_ to do. She'd hoped to volunteer in five or six years. When she would be older, stronger, more prepared. This was exactly what she wanted – but not _when_ she wanted it. She had years of training, but would that really be enough?

She would just have to hope the answer was yes.

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18**

She hoped Tyson wouldn't come.

Mae took a deep breath as she paced the floor of the small room. Her parents had already come and gone, as had her older brother. She wasn't expecting anyone else. In fact, she was _hoping_ no one else would come. Hoping for a little time alone with her thoughts before…

Before she had to get on a train to the Capitol. To the Games. There was nothing that could stop that, of course, but if she could have a little peace beforehand, a little time to think, then maybe that would help. Besides, she couldn't think of anyone else who might show up to say goodbye.

Anyone except Tyson.

Mae shook her head. He probably wouldn't come. He'd left her almost five months ago for one of the 'hot Career girls' he was always going on about. If he came to see her now, it would only be to rub it in. To remind her how horrible she'd always been when she'd practiced with him. To point out how she'd been all of the mentors' last choice.

Mae smirked. If he tried, she would make sure it was worse for him. After all, he was eighteen, too. This had been his last chance. And there had been rumors – rumors she'd never quite believed – that he would have been Mortimer's choice for the Games this year. Now he would never have the chance.

And she would. Not a chance she had ever wanted. When she'd practiced with Tyson, they had simply been having fun together. She'd never really been as serious as he had. Never really wanted to volunteer. It had only been something fun to do with her boyfriend.

Back when they'd actually had fun.

When the door opened again, however, it wasn't Tyson. It was Ethel, her boss from the clothing store. Mae breathed a sigh of relief as the older woman took a seat and patted the chair beside her. She hadn't been expecting Ethel to come, but there were worse possibilities. Mae took a seat beside her, and, for a moment, neither of them spoke. "Guess I'll have to find myself a new helper," Ethel muttered after a little while.

Mae looked away. _Great_. Even Ethel didn't think she had a chance, and was already resigned to the fact that she wouldn't be coming back. But then the Ethel continued. "It's not as if a Victor would really want to come around after school to help an old woman with her shop."

 _A Victor?_ A smile finally crept across Mae's face. "You really think…?"

Ethel patted her arm gently. "You deserve it, kiddo." With that, she got up slowly and made her way to the door. "Make us proud."

Mae nodded a little as the door closed once more. Maybe she _did_ deserve it. But she was one of thirty-five tributes. Who was she to say that the others deserved it any less? And even if she _did_ deserve to win, the Games didn't always go to the tribute who deserved it the most.

But they didn't always go to the obvious choice, either. It wasn't always the strongest or fastest or most prepared tribute who won. She was none of those things. But maybe that didn't matter. Maybe the only thing that mattered, in the end, was how hard she was willing to work for it.

She just hoped that would be enough.

* * *

 **Leonardo Choi, 18**

He hoped they would find a way to manage without him.

Leo brushed the tears from his eyes as he held his girlfriend Light and his best friend Electra tightly. Off to the side, Dove watched silently as the three of them said goodbye. Leo swallowed hard. After two years of training to be a nurse and years of volunteering at the hospital before that, maybe he should be used to goodbyes.

But he'd never thought he would have to say his _own_ goodbye quite so soon.

Leo closed his eyes. This was supposed to be his last year. His last reaping – usually a mere formality in District Two. Maybe the Career system was awful, but it _did_ keep people like him safe. People who didn't want to fight. People who didn't want to kill.

People who didn't stand a chance in the Games.

"Be careful," Light offered quietly. As if that would really be much help in the arena. As if being careful enough would save his life. She meant well – she always did – but they all knew the truth, even if none of them were willing to say it yet. He wouldn't be coming home.

"I will," he promised. He didn't want to say it any more than she did. Didn't want to be the one to remind them all that winning the Games meant killing – something he had sworn never to do. _Do no harm._ But how was he supposed to do that in the arena? The Games brought nothing _but_ harm.

Finally, Light and Electra left, still crying, leaving only Dove, who silently held out something in her hand. Leo smiled when he saw it – his nametag from the hospital. A reminder of the life he was leaving behind … or maybe the life he would be taking with him into the arena. "Are you all right?" Dove asked softly as he pinned the nametag on his shirt.

Leo nodded a little. "I … I think so. As much as I can be. I just wish…" He trailed off, not really knowing how to finish the sentence. _I just wish they'd picked someone else_? But how could he wish something like this on another person? Someone who might have even more of their life left than he did? One of his district partners was _twelve_. Only twelve years old. Leo shook his head. "I just wish the Games didn't exist."

A stupid wish. A futile wish – especially in District Two, where his peers seemed to eat, sleep, and breathe the Games. His family had been excited – jealous, even – to see him going into the arena. Only his friends from the hospital really understood. And even Dove took a step closer, laying a finger over her lips. "Enough of that sort of talk – unless you want to get in real trouble. It's fine to be afraid – you'll have plenty of company there, I imagine – but nothing against the Games or the Capitol, you hear?"

Leo nodded. She was right. Speaking out against the Games wouldn't just mean trouble for him; it could hurt his family and friends. District Two had been spared any retribution after the fiasco of the 41st Games, but he'd still seen the effects on other districts. He knew better than to speak out.

No, whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it quietly. Maybe a silent refusal to play the Games on the Capitol's terms would mean even more, in the end, than an outright revolt. He certainly hoped so. Hoped there was something he could do that would give his time in the arena some sort of meaning. Something that would give his death some sort of purpose.

His death. It was good, almost, to finally allow himself to finish the thought. He was going to die. But he didn't have to die pointlessly. And he didn't have to die on the Capitol's terms.

He just hoped he could find a better option.

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18**

She hoped her sister would have some good advice.

Margo leaned forward in her chair as her mother and older brother Jaden left, leaving her alone with her twin sister Amber. Amber nodded a little, as if already recognizing what Margo wanted to say. They both wished it could have been her, instead. Amber was the one who had wanted this. The one who had trained for this. The one who, thanks to the Quell twist, would never have a chance.

A chance Margo had never wanted. The idea of risking her life in the Games had never been an appealing one. Why fight and kill for prestige and power that could be earned through other venues with much less risk? But she was the one going into the Games now – not her sister. So as much as she hated to admit it, she needed all the advice she could get. "Any helpful hints?" Margo asked sweetly.

Amber chuckled a little. They both knew exactly how far a few minutes' worth of advice would get her in the Games. But it was better than nothing. "Listen to your mentor," Amber answered immediately. "She knows what she's doing, and I'm glad she chose you."

Margo scoffed. "Yeah, she chose me after the first three picked a twelve-year-old, a fourteen-year-old, and a crying boy who couldn't make it to the stage on his own. What does that say?"

"That the younger ones probably have some training," Amber offered. "Don't ignore them. We don't train with the younger trainees much, and I don't think I've seen the boy, but the younger girl looks familiar. Don't write them off – as threats or as allies. Not yet, at least."

"Even though she's twelve."

"Twelve-year-old won last year," Amber pointed out. "Physical strength isn't everything. Having both is good, of course, but, given the choice, go with technique over brute force every time. Harriet knows that, too. _Listen to her._ "

Margo glared a little. "All _right_ , already. I get it. Listen to my mentor. But there has to be more to it than that. I mean, she's been mentoring for … what? Eleven years?"

"Twelve."

"Whatever. And the only Victor we've had since then is Tosh."

Amber nodded. "You're right. It's not that simple. But there's only so much I can tell you in a few minutes. She'll be able to help you until you're actually in the arena. And then…"

"And then I'm on my own," Margo agreed.

"Not at first. Not if you find some allies. But you can't rely on them forever. That's the trouble with Careers sometimes. They get so used to working together as a group that they hesitate when the time comes to fend for themselves."

"I'm not a Career."

Amber nodded. "I know. And maybe that's a good thing. With this many untrained tributes, anyone with even a moderate amount of training – anyone who seems like they might be a threat – will have a target on their back from the very start. So don't try to fake it. Don't pretend to have skills you don't have. Just show them what you can really do, and you'll probably find some allies. But don't rely on them too much."

A knock on the door startled the pair out of their conversation. Amber wrapped her arms around Margo one last time before letting go. "Good luck."

Margo smirked as Amber closed the door. _Good luck._ Right. It was going to take a lot more than luck for her to make it back to District Two. It was going to take patience. Practice. Skill. Skill she didn't have – not yet, at least.

She just hoped she would have enough time to learn.

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14**

He hoped they could get along without him for a while.

Darian nodded a little as the door closed behind Trisha and Dominick. His father and older brother had come and gone, but it was his friends he was really worried about. His father probably wouldn't even notice he was gone, and his brother would manage just fine without him. But his friends … He'd always been there to protect them. To defend them. Willing to do anything – _anything_ – he could to look out for them. Even…

Darian clenched his fists tightly. They would be fine. They weren't the ones who were going into the Games. They weren't the ones who would be facing thirty-four other tributes in a fight to the death. Maybe it was okay to worry about himself this time.

Before he could get settled in his chair, however, the door swung open one more time, and his mentor, Balthasar, poked his head in the door. "Got a moment?"

Darian raised an eyebrow. He wasn't expecting anyone else, but surely the two of them would have plenty of time to talk on the train. Maybe Balthasar wanted some privacy, some time away from the other tributes and mentors – especially since there were five of them this year. But he didn't seem like the sort who cared what others thought or said about him. "Sure," Darian agreed, nodding to the seat beside him.

But Balthasar didn't sit down. "Lots of rumors floating around about you."

Darian shrugged. "And you."

Balthasar chuckled. "Touche. But I'm not the one who's about to be fighting for his life. I can afford not to care what other people think. You, on the other hand…"

"You want me to tell them the rumors aren't true."

"I want you to tell them that they _are_. Even if they aren't. Even if they're embellished. The Capitol loves a good story – even if it's not completely true. Maybe _especially_ if it's not completely true."

Darian shifted in his seat. He didn't mind telling people what had happened. Maybe it would even be good to get it out in the open. To admit that it wasn't an animal attack that had killed Voss. Clearly, not everybody had believed that story, anyway. Maybe it would be better to tell the truth.

But that wasn't what Balthasar was suggesting. "So what should I say?"

Balthasar shrugged. "Whatever you like. This kid you were fighting – how old was he?"

"I…" Darian hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure. He'd never bothered to find out. "A little older than me, maybe?"

Balthasar grinned a little. "Good. But details are important. Let's say sixteen. Still impressive, but not entirely out of reach. No one would believe you were dumb enough to challenge a full-fledged Career to a duel to the death."

"It wasn't a—" A look from Balthasar cut him off. "It wasn't supposed to be a duel to the death. Things got carried away, and—"

"And it _became_ a duel to the death," Balthasar finished. " _His_ death. Don't try to hide it, kid. Don't try to justify it. You don't _have_ to. You're in the Games now. You don't have to justify anything. Not to the Capitol. Not to your friends. And certainly not to me. You're a killer. It's not something that can be learned – or taught. It's what you _are_. You don't have to hide it anymore."

Darian swallowed hard. Maybe Balthasar was right. He'd never wanted to be a killer. But it was what he was now. Maybe it was what he had always been. And it was certainly what he would have to be if he wanted to survive.

He just hoped his friends would understand that.

* * *

" _Do you not hope your children shall be kings?"_


	7. District Three: Custom

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

 **Note:** Thank you to _LokiThisIsMadness_ and _Too Old For This Shtick_ for Dinah and Merrik, respectively.

* * *

 **District Three  
** **Custom**

* * *

 **Miriam Valence, 49  
** **Victor of the 15th Hunger Games**

It was almost unnerving how normal this year felt.

Miriam glanced over at Percival and Avery as the three of them headed for the square. A reaping would never truly be normal, and it would certainly never be _right_ , but this year was almost a relief. _Would_ be a relief, if not for the nagging suspicion that the Capitol had something special planned for the Quell beyond the twist itself. And maybe they did. But, for the moment, things didn't seem quite as horrible as they had for the past several years.

Maybe that wasn't a particularly high bar to reach. Ever since the 41st Games, the situation in most districts had been grim, but even more so for those who had played an active part in the attempted rebellion. The Games themselves, along with the executions that followed, had frightened the districts back into submission. Avery had technically won, but it seemed that everyone had lost.

Especially Avery. Her family had been executed, despite the fact that she had only joined the rebels after being persuaded by her district partner. For a long time, she had blamed herself, but, ever since the 42nd Games, it seemed, things had been slowly getting better. During the Games themselves, she'd formed an unusual friendship with Vester, of all people, and they'd kept in contact ever since. What they spoke about, Miriam wasn't sure, and, on the surface, they seemed to have little in common. But whatever the reason she had decided to latch onto him, he'd always been there to offer his support.

Miriam squeezed Avery's hand gently as they neared the square. Was that the reason, she wondered, why Vester had decided to mentor this year? He and Avery spoke often on the phone, but they rarely had the opportunity to see each other in person. Maybe he was hoping to see her this year, to be able to help her through the Quell.

It was her first Quell, after all. But it was Vester's second. And Miriam's second, which made her the most experienced of District Three's mentors. Which wasn't a particularly high bar to clear, either, since there were only three of them. Now was hardly the time to complain about that, however. It was _because_ there were only three of them, after all, that District Three only had to send two tributes this time.

Two tributes. Just like a normal year. And, if everything went as planned inside the Games themselves, President Grisom had promised that things would return to normal following the Quell. Two tributes per district. Two children who would probably die, rather than three or four. It was terrible that it felt like a relief. But she couldn't deny that it did.

The rest of the district, however, didn't seem particularly relieved, and the children in the reaping section didn't seem any less anxious than normal. Whether they had two chances to be reaped or three didn't seem to make much difference to them. There was still a chance – even for the younger ones. Percival had been reaped when he was seventeen, but both she and Avery had been only fourteen. And there had been others, as well, even younger than them. Tributes who had never made it back from the Games.

 _Stop it._ Miriam tore her gaze away from the younger children as the three of them climbed the stairs to the stage. After returning from her own Games, she'd gone back to school and completed the studies she'd been forced to abandon at a young age when her family had died, leaving her to fend for herself. After completing her own schooling, she'd taken a job as a teacher, free of charge. She helped out wherever she was needed, but she was always drawn to the younger students.

Maybe they reminded her of her own childhood – a childhood that had been far too short. Whatever the case, the younger tributes were always the hardest. Always the ones who needed her the most, the ones who relied on her advice. The ones she always felt she had somehow failed.

It wasn't her fault. That was what she would tell Avery or Percival, she knew, if they said anything of the sort. Tributes died in the Games, and the mentors weren't to blame for that. The tributes weren't really to blame for it, either, but she knew better than to say so. Better than to admit what they all knew – that it was the Capitol's fault. That they were really the only ones to blame for what happened in the Games.

Miriam took a seat, and the others followed. There was no applause, no cheering, none of the celebration that might happen in other districts. They knew her, as they knew all the Victors, but here in District Three they weren't celebrities. They were survivors – nothing more, nothing less. There were a few looks of admiration in the crowd, and there were a few looks of sympathy, but they were both outnumbered by the looks of indifference.

Not that she blamed them for that. Before her own reaping, she hadn't thought much of the Games. She'd been too concerned with her own survival, and the same, she knew, was true of most of the people in the square. They just wanted to get through this alive. That was all any of them were really asking for today.

 _Just get through it._

Even District Three's escort, Richmond Elmore, didn't seem particularly excited as he joined the three of them onstage. This was just another year to get through. Another year of drawing names out of a bowl and watching children die. Whether it was two names or three didn't seem to matter to him.

But it would matter to the tributes he was about to call to the stage. Miriam tensed as he dipped his hand into the single reaping bowl. There was no show. No fuss. He simply reached in and drew the first slip of paper his fingers found. "Dinah Peralta."

To Miriam's relief, it was the eighteen-year-old section that parted around a girl in a green shirt, black leather jacket, black jeans, and boots. She was tall and pale, with long, wavy red hair and grey eyes. For a moment, she didn't move. But when she finally stepped forward and started making her way to the stage, there was no sign of tears in her eyes. She held her head high as she walked – maybe trying to ignore the crowd.

Trying a little _too_ hard, perhaps, Miriam realized a little too late to do anything as the girl tripped over the first step on her way up the stairs. Miriam cringed, suppressing her natural urge to leap up and help the girl. That might help her right now, but, in the Capitol's eyes, it would be a sign of weakness. And that was something none of them could afford.

The girl quickly got to her feet and took the rest of the stairs as carefully as she could, her eyes now on the ground. Only once she reached the center of the stage and was standing beside Richmond did she finally look up at the crowd. There had been a few chuckles when she had tripped, but they were silent now as Richmond approached the reaping bowl once more. One more name. Just one more…

"Merrik Haims."

This time it was the fifteen-year-old section that parted around a small boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and black pants. He was pale and thin, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes that were quickly growing wider, glancing around frantically as if looking for something. Someone. Maybe hoping that someone would save him. Maybe forgetting, for a moment, that no one could. That no one could volunteer even if they wanted to.

The boy took a step back. Then a step forward. As if trying to decide which way to go. A boy beside him put a hand on his arm, trying to steady him, but the boy was shaking now. Swaying this way and that, trying to regain his composure. Trying to keep his balance. But he was soon leaning on the other boy, his chest heaving wildly as he struggled to breathe.

It didn't take long for the Peacekeepers to reach him, and they quickly tore him from the other boy's grasp, dragged him to the stage, and dumped him in front of the girl, who took a step back, unsure. What was she supposed to do? At last, she reached down, offering her hand, but the boy was still shaking too violently to grab it.

Finally, Miriam made her way to the boy's side. Maybe helping him would make him look weak, but it certainly wouldn't be any worse than what was happening now. She tried to wave the cameras away, but, when that did no good, knelt down beside him anyway, taking hold of his shoulders. "Merrik. Merrik, listen to me. You have to stand up now."

The boy muttered something she couldn't make out, but she was pretty sure he was saying he didn't want to. She couldn't blame him for that, really. None of them wanted to be here. None of them wanted any of this. But this was where they were, and nothing he could do would change that. Miriam squeezed his shoulders tightly. " _Listen_ to me. _Get up_."

Finally, the shaking began to subside a little. Merrik's wide, terrified eyes finally met hers, and he nodded a little as she helped him to his feet. He was still trembling, but, after a moment, he managed to stand on his own. Dinah held out her hand again, smiling a little. Maybe grateful that whatever impression she'd made by tripping over the stairs had been swept from everyone's minds.

Or maybe she was simply trying to be kind. Either way, Merrik gripped her hand tightly for a moment before Dinah pulled away. The cameras finally switched off, and the Peacekeepers led the pair of them away.

"I'll take Merrik," Miriam offered before either of the others could say anything. Avery opened her mouth to object, but Miriam shook her head. "It's my call. I'll do it." She rarely used her position as the senior mentor to insist on anything, but she couldn't let Avery do this to herself. Not this year.

Percival quickly took the hint. "I'll take Dinah, then, if that's all right with you, Avery."

Avery hesitated for a moment. But only a moment. She was still coming to the Capitol; that had been the plan all along. The three of them could go, but only two needed to mentor. "All right," Avery agreed at last. "But I'll mentor next year."

Miriam nodded. That seemed fair. They could alternate years between the three of them – two of them mentoring, one accompanying them – at least until they managed to bring another tribute home.

And maybe that would be this year. There was a chance. There was always a chance. But in the last forty-nine years, that had only happened three times. As much as she hoped this year would bring another Victor to District Three, they couldn't count on it. They never could.

Nothing was ever certain in the Games.

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18**

This was no different from a normal year.

Dinah took a deep breath as she held her brother Jon a little tighter. Her parents and younger sister Laurel sat near them, trying to look confident. Trying not to think of what was really about to happen. But ignoring it wouldn't change anything. She had been reaped. She was going to be in the Hunger Games. Seven years of being in the reaping, and _this_ was the year she was picked.

But was it really any different? Sure, the twist had prevented anyone from volunteering in her place, but it wasn't as if she would have expected anyone to. There were more tributes this year, but there had been thirty-five tributes ever since the 43rd Games – a year before she'd been eligible for the reaping. If she was going to be reaped, maybe this was the best year for it, after all. She was eighteen. It was a Quarter Quell. If she won…

If she won, the rewards would be even greater than they would in a normal year. District Three might finally be able to recover from the effects of the rebellion. They might be able to begin to rebuild their relationship with the Capitol. The whole district would benefit. And her family – they would be able to live in peace for the rest of their lives, free from a life of hardship in the factories.

 _If_ she won. That was the catch, of course. In order to earn that life of ease, she would have to outlast, outfight, and outmaneuver thirty-four other tributes. Thirty-four other _people_ , each of whom would be fighting for his or her life just as fiercely as she would fight for hers. She would try, of course – they all would – but only one person came out of the Games alive. She _hoped_ it would be her, but she couldn't be certain.

No one could be certain of anything in the Games.

"I'll see you again," Jon whispered as the Peacekeepers came to take her family away. He was trying to sound certain. Confident. But his voice was trembling as the words left his mouth. He _wanted_ them to be true. But did he really believe them?

Did _she_?

Dinah shook her head as the door closed, leaving her alone. She had to believe it. That was the only way she was going to survive the Games. She had to believe that she had a chance. If she gave that up…

No. No, she wouldn't do that. She couldn't. Dinah clenched her fists tightly. She _would_ come back. And then … then life would be better. Certainly better than it was now. Maybe their Victors' lives weren't perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than being dead. And certainly better than the life that had been waiting for her. A life of working in the factories alongside her parents, never really able to climb out of the poverty her family had lived in for generations.

Maybe it was even a _good_ thing she was here. It certainly wasn't something she would have chosen. Not something she would have volunteered for. But, now that she was here, maybe it would be best to make the most of it. She had a chance at a better life now.

Of course, there was also a chance that she would die. But where was the good in focusing on that? If she was going to die, it would happen – no matter how much she worried and fretted about it. And if she was going to live – however long she was going to live – then she was going to live _now_.

She was certain of that, at least.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15**

His mind was racing even faster than normal.

Merrik took a deep breath, trying to calm himself a little as the Peacekeepers dragged his mother from the room. He turned away as the door closed behind her. This wasn't how he'd wanted to say goodbye. Then again, he hadn't wanted to say goodbye at all. He hadn't wanted any of this.

But maybe it was what he deserved.

Merrik closed his eyes, trying to ignore that thought – the thought that had haunted him ever since Richmond had called his name. Maybe this was payback from … who? The Capitol? But he was always careful. He was certain they couldn't have found out. After all, who would suspect _him_? Who would suspect that a fifteen-year-old boy, of all people, was involved in his trade?

His trade. It hadn't started out that way. For a while, he'd simply accompanied his mother when she was performing her duties as a midwife. He'd been content with that. He'd never wanted it to turn into anything more. But, one day, his mother had been too ill to keep an appointment, and had sent him in her place.

The woman had given birth to twins. Beautiful, healthy baby girls. But the family had asked – no, begged – him to only report one. To give them a chance to raise the second one in secret, beyond the Capitol's reach. Beyond the reach of the Games. With only a few months left before his own first reaping, Merrik had been terrified to defy the Capitol – but even more afraid for the baby girl's life.

He sometimes wondered what had happened to her – the girl he hadn't reported. The child the Capitol knew nothing about. And the others who had followed. Not twins, but babies who had been reported as stillborn. Babies – some two or three years old now – who were growing up in the silence of their homes, their parents afraid to let them outside lest the Capitol discover their existence. How could a child live like that?

Merrik swallowed hard. They lived like that because _he_ had lied. He had made it possible for their parents to hide them, to keep their lives a secret. And this … this was his reward. His punishment. He had condemned them to a life of silence and seclusion, and now his life was about to be cut short in return.

Maybe. Possibly. Probably, even. There were thirty-five tributes, and only one of them would be coming home. He had no reason to think it would be him. No reason to believe he would be able to survive when so many tributes from District Three had failed. One in thirty-five wasn't good odds, and those odds would only get worse once the other tributes saw the scene he'd caused onstage at the reaping.

Merrik took another deep breath. Then another. He hadn't meant to cause such a fuss. He had just been so scared. He still was. But it was a little better now – now that there was no one watching him. Well, no one except the Peacekeeper who was almost certainly still outside the door. And, soon enough, all of Panem would be watching him.

That wasn't a very comforting thought.

Not that there were many comforting thoughts available to him. He was going to be in the Games. He was probably going to die. His mother … What would happen to her? She'd begun to rely on his help, on the extra income from his job in the factories. He was all she had, in the end. What would happen if she had to get along without him?

He wasn't certain he wanted to know.

* * *

" _Think of this, good peers, but as a thing of custom: 'tis no other."_


	8. District Four: Worst

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

 **Note:** Thank you to _Aspect of One_ , _Jakeb19_ , _kkfanatic22_ , and _twistedservice_ for Aleyn, Arabel, Emmett, and Ronan, respectively.

* * *

 **District Four  
** **Worst**

* * *

 **Mags Pharos, 57  
** **Victor of the 8th Hunger Games**

Things could always be worse.

Mags braced herself as she knocked on Naomi's door. It was a moment before Naomi answered, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes despite the late hour. She was dressed – which was something, at least – but shook her head as Mags took a step into the house. "Is it time already?"

Mags shrugged. "Almost. Will be by the time we've collected everyone. Sure you won't join us this year?"

Naomi simply shook her head, which wasn't really a surprise. Naomi had avoided mentoring ever since the 42nd Games. Ever since Misha had burned the training center to the ground, prompting the Peacekeepers to shoot him in the process. Naomi had built the Career system in District Four from the ground up, and Misha had been her first Career Victor. Now they were both gone and Naomi … she had never quite recovered.

Technically, of course, the Careers weren't completely _gone_. But despite Kalypso and Imalia's efforts to keep training new recruits, she doubted the Career system in Four would ever be what it once was. The other Careers tended to be distrustful of Four's volunteers, and not entirely without reason. It was Misha, after all, who had masterminded the rebellion in the 41st Games. That wasn't exactly common knowledge, and how, exactly, he had managed it, Mags wasn't sure. Maybe she would never know.

But even if the other districts – apart from the Victors – didn't know about the part Misha had played, they certainly knew District Four's tributes had been involved. They had been the only Career district to betray the Capitol, and they had paid the price. They'd sent six tributes to the 42nd Games, and four every year since then.

Naomi sighed. "I'll pass. You four have fun."

Mags nodded. There were enough of them to mentor this year, and, after the Quell, President Grisom had promised that the number of tributes would be reduced to the normal two per district. As long as there were no further incidents.

She could only hope there wouldn't be. This year, of all years, they couldn't afford to make trouble. They couldn't afford any mistakes. She was certain of the other mentors. Kalypso, Bierce, Imalia – they wouldn't cause trouble. They knew the stakes. But their tributes…

They would just have to hope their tributes had the same sense, Mags decided as she and Naomi headed for Kalypso's house, where Kalypso and Bierce were waiting. "District Three's reapings just finished," Kalypso explained. "Nothing exciting there, but it looks like the Career pack has some … options."

The Career pack. Mags nodded, not about to contradict her fellow mentor until they actually knew who their tributes would be. But the chances of there actually _being_ a normal Career pack this year were slim, at best. During the last Quell…

Of course, she couldn't make assumptions based on what had happened during the last Quell, either. Last time, every district had sent three tributes. This year, there would be more from Career districts, since they had more Victors. Five tributes from District Two. Four each from One, Four, and Five. Quite a pack, if it weren't for the rule forbidding volunteers.

But without volunteers, how much of a pack would there be? Kalypso was still thinking like a Career, planning like a Career, but the chances of any of their tributes having even a meager amount of training were slim. Maybe in One and Two, where the academies were popular places to hang out even for those who weren't serious about volunteering. Maybe in Five, where enthusiasm for the Career system was growing. But in Four…

Without a training center, interest in the Games had plummeted. Careers in Four were no longer enthusiastic; they were desperate. Desperate for something better than working in the shipyards or the fisheries for the rest of their lives. The fun was gone. The excitement, the glory, the glamour of the Games.

And maybe that was for the best. The volunteers they could scrape together no longer went into the Games with any delusions about how easy it would be. They knew their chances, and they knew the risks. But that also meant that there weren't always enough volunteers to fill all four spots. This year, the chances of one of those few actually being chosen were slim.

But Mags held her tongue. Better to wait until after the reaping. Once they knew who their tributes were, they wouldn't need to speculate. So Mags nodded along as Kalypso filled Naomi in on the tributes from One and Two, glossing over a 'clumsy girl' and a 'crying boy' from District Three.

As they approached Imalia's house, District Four's youngest Victor hurried out to meet them, with her parents close behind. Mags smiled, waiting for them by the road. She'd never been in Imalia's house, and couldn't remember any of the others being invited, either. Maybe it was simply a desire to keep her life as a Victor separate from her family life. If so, she could certainly respect that. It was a difficult balance, and some Victors lost touch with their families all together. And some…

Mags nodded to Imalia as they all turned and headed for the square. Her own parents had passed away years ago, but they had never really been close – even before her Games. Her fellow Victors were her family now, and Imalia was a welcome addition. "Ready?" Mags asked gently.

Imalia shrugged. "Ready as I can be. Last year with extra tributes, right?"

"Right," Mags agreed readily. Imalia was clearly upset about the lack of volunteers – as were all the Career Victors – but it wouldn't do them any good to dwell on that.

The rest of the district, on the other hand, didn't seem so optimistic. A hush fell over the crowd as the five of them arrived. Five Victors. Well, five _living_ Victors. After nearly fifty years, they had the distinction of being the first – and so far only – district where a Victor had died.

Not exactly a milestone they wanted.

The five of them took their seats as District Four's escort, Lydia Sherwin, took the stage. The crowd applauded politely, but the enthusiasm of previous years was long gone. Reapings these days were riddled with anxiety, as not even the trainers always knew whether their chosen volunteers would really go through with volunteering. And this year…

This year, there would be no volunteers. No one to save whoever was unfortunate enough to have their name picked. There were a few who had planned to volunteer, who actually _wanted_ to be chosen, but most of the teenagers in front of her looked nervous. Frightened. Just like she had been, all those years ago. She had never wanted to be on this stage.

But she had survived. Without training, without allies, without any real talent to set her apart. She had beaten the odds. And maybe, just maybe, one of their tributes this year would do the same.

Mags took a deep breath, doing her best to smile out at the crowd as Lydia reached into the reaping bowl, swirling the papers around for a moment, as if reluctant to choose one. Maybe she was. Any other year, tributes could at least _hope_ that someone would step forward to take their place. This year, that hope was gone. Whoever she chose would be going into the Games.

"Ronan Callaway!"

Near the stage, the eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue button-down shirt and black dress pants. He was tall and solidly built, with olive skin and dark brown hair. But the name didn't sound familiar, and none of the other mentors gave any sign of recognition as he took a step forward. One boy nearby gave him a quick pat on the back, another a one-armed hug around his shoulders. But none of them could do anything to really help him as he made his way forward, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to smile.

Mags smiled back – the only thing she could do to help – as he made his way up the stairs, taking each step slowly, as if by doing so he could avoid the inevitable. But, of course, he couldn't, and soon he was standing onstage, his smile beginning to fade, giving way to the fear that already filled his dark brown eyes. Mags quickly nodded to Lydia to keep going. It was better to keep things moving. Better if they didn't have time to think…

"Aleyn Tillens!"

The fifteen-year-old section slowly parted around a girl in a blue-grey dress and black flats. She was a little taller than average for her age and slender, with caramel skin and waist-length brown hair. One moment passed, then another. Still, the girl didn't move. She simply stared up at the stage, her green eyes wide with fright, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do.

The Peacekeepers weren't about to wait for her to figure it out. Two of them headed towards her, but the girl still didn't budge. "Come on," Imalia muttered quietly. "You can do it." But, apparently, she couldn't. Only when one of the Peacekeepers took her by the arm did she finally seem to register what was going on. She pulled away, but the Peacekeeper gripped her tighter, and the two of them dragged her towards the stage.

By the time they reached the stage, the girl's face was red from the effort of struggling against the Peacekeepers, and there were tears in her eyes. "No," she pleaded. "No, please, _please_ , I can't. I can't."

She buried her face in her hands as Ronan slid an arm awkwardly around her shoulders. "It's okay. It'll be okay." But he couldn't hide how empty the words were. It wouldn't be okay, and they both knew it.

"Arabel Ford!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted again, this time around a girl in a short, faded pink dress. She was about Aleyn's height but even skinnier and paler-skinned, with a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pair of pigtails, her piercing blue eyes darting back and forth from the stage to the people beside her. One of the girls standing beside her took her hand encouragingly, helping her take her first few steps towards the stage.

The Peacekeepers quickly shooed her friends away, but the girl kept moving towards the stage, quicker than before. Maybe she didn't want to end up being dragged up, like the girl before her. Either way, she kept moving, keeping her eyes down as she headed up the stairs, glancing quickly at the audience before taking her place beside her district partners, her eyes wide with fright.

 _It'll be over soon._ Mags glanced over at Lydia, who dipped her hand into the bowl one last time, then pulled out one more slip of paper. "Emmett Darsier!"

She heard the laughter before the eighteen-year-old section even parted, revealing a boy in a dark brown suit and pants. He was a little taller than Ronan but not as muscular, with pale skin and short, slightly spiked dirty blonde hair. For a moment, the boy simply stood there, laughing, showing no sign of moving towards the stage.

Then he saw the Peacekeepers headed towards him, and laughter quickly turned to shouting. "No! I'm not ready!" he yelled, but the Peacekeepers kept advancing. The boy reached into his pocket, gripping something tightly, glaring at the Peacekeepers. Mags tensed. What did he have? A weapon? _Please don't do anything stupid._

To her relief, he didn't. His shouting stopped as he headed for the stage, his hand still in his pocket. "Well, well, that was exciting!" Lydia beamed as he took his place onstage, his dark green eyes now fixed on the crowd. "District Four, your tributes! Ronan, Aleyn, Arabel, and Emmett!"

The crowd cheered, but more out of habit than genuine excitement. "Shake hands, then!" Lydia grinned, and Emmett finally slipped his hand out of his pocket long enough to exchange a few handshakes before the four of them were herded towards the Justice Building.

Mags turned to Imalia. The four of them – Mags, Kalypso, Bierce, and Imalia – had all been mentoring together for seven years now. It had become tradition for the least experienced mentors to get first pick. Imalia nodded a little. "I'll take Ronan."

Kalypso raised an eyebrow. "Thought you might want Emmett. He has spirit."

"He has no self control. There's a difference."

Bierce shrugged. "At least he didn't pull out that knife and actually _stab_ somebody."

Imalia shook her head. "All that proves is he's not a complete idiot."

Kalypso smiled. "Good enough for me. If Bierce doesn't want him, I'll take him."

Bierce shook his head. "He's all yours. I want Aleyn."

Kalypso scoffed. "Why?"

"I like a challenge. Guess that means Arabel's yours, Mags."

Mags nodded. "Sounds good."

It didn't. None of it sounded good. In a few weeks, at least three of their tributes – three of these _children_ – would be dead. Maybe all four. None of this was good. But it was what they had to do. It was the way things were.

And it could always be worse.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15**

She hadn't thought the Games could get any worse.

Aleyn took a deep breath, trying her best to dry her tears before her parents arrived. She didn't want their last memories of her to be a crying mess. And she didn't want her last memories of them to be clouded with tears. Not that she wanted these to be her _last_ memories of them at all. But she wasn't kidding herself. She wasn't ready for the Games.

She was never ready when the Hunger Games came around. The Games always seemed to tear a rift in her family – a rift that wasn't there the rest of the year. Her mother despised the Games, calling them cruel and callous. Her father considered them the only worthwhile entertainment that Panem had to offer. She'd grown up hearing both sides of the argument, which had only made her hate the Games more.

But she'd never hated them more than now. Now they were about to tear her away from her family. Aleyn rushed into her parents' arms as the door swung open, and was immediately enveloped in a hug. "I'm so sorry," her mother whispered, running her fingers through Aleyn's hair. "Honey, I'm so sorry."

It wasn't her fault. Her mother had forbidden her from taking tesserae, even when it might have helped them have a little more to get by. Even with volunteers most years in Four, there was no guarantee that someone would have taken her place any other year. It was better, she had said, not to take the chance. They'd always protected her as much as they could; her name had only been in the bowl the usual four times for a fifteen-year-old.

But it hadn't mattered. Nothing seemed to matter right now. Nothing except the feel of her parents' arms around her. "I'll be watching you," her mother whispered. "We'll be waiting for you to come back."

Aleyn swallowed hard. _I'll be watching you._ Her mother never watched the Games. But this year … she wasn't about to give up what might be her last chance to see her daughter. "Thank you," Aleyn managed through her tears. What else was she supposed to say?

Her father reached into his pocket, removing a small ball of fabric that she had made for her cats, Ginger and Pleiades. "I couldn't think of anything else. I thought maybe since you play games with the cats … and this is a game…" He trailed off, looking away. "Doesn't seem much like a game anymore."

Aleyn threw her arms around her father. "It's perfect," she assured him, tucking the ball in her pocket. He was right. The Games had never seemed like a game to her, but the fact that _he_ wouldn't find them entertaining this year…

Her mother was watching the Games. Her father wouldn't be enjoying the Games. And she would be _in_ the Games. Everything seemed to be upside-down. Aleyn took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I'll miss you. I…" She could feel her tears welling up once more. "I love you."

"We love you, too." Maybe it wasn't much, but what else was there to say? They wrapped her in one more hug before the Peacekeepers came to take them away, leaving her alone once more. But, finally, she didn't feel quite so alone.

Maybe things weren't as bad as she'd thought.

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18**

The more he thought about it, the worse it seemed.

Ronan held his half-sister Brynn close as the others – his mother, step-father, and sister Kendra – sat nearby. Brynn was only four – too young to really understand what was going on – but he could see it gradually sinking in on the others' faces. The look on his face, of course, was probably much the same. The more he thought about going into the Games, the worse it all seemed.

Not that the Games had ever seemed _good_. He'd never been much of a Hunger Games enthusiast, even before the Career system in District Four had started to decline. The Games were there, but they'd never had a huge impact on his life one way or the other, aside from the yearly ritual of hoping he wouldn't end up in them.

But now there was no more hoping. He was going into the Games, and there was no way to stop it. "It's not fair," his mother muttered. "It was your last year. Your name was only in the bowl seven times."

Except that wasn't true. Hadn't been true for a while. For years, he'd been taking tesserae behind their backs. Not the maximum amount he could – just enough to make life a little bit easier, to help put a little more food on the table for his younger siblings. None of them knew it, but his name had been in the bowl twenty-three times. But it had never seemed like much of a risk. He'd always figured someone else would volunteer.

Ronan ran his fingers gently through Kendra's hair. "Hey, at least it wasn't both of us, right? It could've happened. Both of the girls are your age."

Wrong thing to say. Kendra immediately shook her head. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that – start comparing them to me. Then you'll want to help them, like you did onstage earlier."

Ronan shook his head. Was she talking about how he had comforted the first girl who had been reaped? That hadn't meant anything. "I was just trying to—"

"To make her feel better," Kendra finished. "Don't. You can't. You have to focus on what's going to help _you_ survive."

Ronan looked away. She was _right_ , and that was the worst part. His little sister was already thinking of the other tributes as competition, where he had seen a young girl who needed his help. "Don't help them," Kendra repeated. "You can't afford to."

"She's right," his father agreed reluctantly. "We want _you_ back. Do what you have to do."

 _What you have to do._ His family was giving him permission to … what? To play the Game the way the Capitol wanted? To kill without mercy, without compassion, without a second thought? They were already forgiving him, already trying to relieve his guilt over what would have to happen if he wanted to see them again.

Brynn nodded a little. "Come back," she agreed, and Ronan could feel his eyes filling with tears. She didn't understand what he would have to do. And maybe that was for the best. But they couldn't hide it from her forever. If he came home, his baby sister would eventually have to find out what he'd done in order to survive.

And that made it even worse.

* * *

 **Arabel Ford, 15**

At least things couldn't get much worse.

Arabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the door closed behind her family. This was what she had been afraid of for years – ever since it had become clear that the Career system in District Four was beginning to decline. That there wouldn't always be volunteers to step in and save whoever happened to be reaped.

Three years ago, during her first reaping, she had been terrified. She and her friends had even started practicing with whatever weapons they could borrow, steal, or make – just in case they were unlucky enough to be chosen. But their first reaping had passed without incident. When the second passed, as well, they started to relax, and, as they all became busier, their little training sessions became fewer and farther between. It had been months – maybe even a year – since she'd held one of the pieces of wood they'd fashioned to look like swords.

She just hoped she remembered some of what she'd learned.

Arabel's eyes flew open again as the door creaked, revealing Mercedes, Henley, and Ally. Arabel could feel tears in her eyes once more as her friends wrapped her in a hug. "It'll be okay," they whispered. "You'll be fine. You can do this."

And maybe she could. But it was easy for them to be confident. _They_ weren't the ones going into the Games. And maybe that was a good thing – or, at least, it was good that none of them would be in the arena together. That they wouldn't have to fight each other, kill each other. "I hope I…" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing back her tears. "I hope I'll see you again."

Even the words felt strange. _I hope._ She knew it wasn't what they wanted to hear. They wanted to hear that she was certain, that she _knew_ she would be the one coming home. Tributes from Career districts were supposed to be confident in their skills. Certain that they had what it took.

But Four was barely a Career district anymore, and she certainly wasn't what anyone would be looking for in a Career. But maybe that was good. Maybe they would underestimate her. Maybe that would be enough to keep her safe for a while.

For a while. But not forever. After last year, the other tributes would know better than to write off even the youngest and weakest tributes. She would have to do more than hide and hope that the others would ignore her. Eventually, she would have to fight.

"You can do this," Ally insisted. "You were always the best at training. Remember how good you used to be with a bow?"

The best of the _four_ of them. Good for a twelve-year-old. It had been more than a year since she'd even held one of the small, makeshift bows the four of them had managed to fashion. How well would those skills hold up against…

Against what? Against Careers? There weren't really likely to be any, were there? She hadn't seen any of the other tributes training. Not that training was really as public as it once was, ever since the training center burned down. But she would still occasionally see older teens running along the shoreline, or sparring with one of the trainers. And she hadn't seen any of the others practicing.

Arabel shook her head. She couldn't afford to assume that. Couldn't afford to underestimate them – not when that was exactly what she was hoping _they_ would do. She couldn't make the same mistake.

That would only make things worse.

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18**

"Just don't make things any worse."

Emmett looked up, surprised. He hadn't been expecting anyone else to visit after his parents and brother left. Certainly there was no one else in the district who would miss him. When he saw who it was, he raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't sure you'd recognized me."

Kalypso smiled a little. "You're a hard one to forget."

That was probably true. The last day he'd trained with her – nearly four years ago – he'd almost killed his opponent. He'd sworn off training after that – not because he felt guilty, but because he'd actually _enjoyed_ it. The things he could do when he was angry … they frightened him.

"And how am I supposed to avoid making things worse?" Emmett scoffed.

Kalypso held out her hand. "Giving me that knife would be a good place to start."

"What knife?"

"Oh, please. The one you have in your pocket. I'm glad you managed not to do something stupid at the reaping, but you know they won't let you take it in the arena. So you might as well give it to me now. I'll see you get it back after the Games."

Emmett shook his head. "Already assuming I'll win, huh?"

Kalypso shrugged. "Hope for the best, you know."

The best. It had been a while since 'the best' had happened to him. After all, he was here in the Games, after deciding to quit training before he got in too deep. Maybe this was retribution for what had happened to his partner. Or maybe it was punishment for what had happened to his sister only a few months ago.

No. No, there was no one who knew the truth about that. No one who _could_ know. His brother Tylen had helped him cover up the truth. Made it look like suicide. No one would ever know what really happened. What _could_ really happen when he lost it.

Except … now they would have to. If he was going to survive the Games, all of Panem would have to find out what he was capable of. If he wanted to win, he would have to show all of them what was really inside him.

Was he ready for that?

Emmett slowly removed the knife from his pocket and handed it over to Kalypso. "You really think I can do this?"

Kalypso nodded. "The boy who quit training four years ago could. If he's still in there somewhere … then yes. You have a chance."

Emmett clenched his fists. _If he's still in there somewhere._ As if he could really have changed in the four years since he'd trained with Kalypso. As if people really _could_ change. No. People didn't change. People never changed. _He_ would never change.

And maybe that would save him.

* * *

" _Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward to what they were before."_


	9. District Five: Desire

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thank you to _Heartwood98_ , _sock-feet-and-stirring-sand_ , _Platrium_ , and _Skydork_ for Elliot, Macauley, Retro, and Vashti, respectively.

* * *

 **District Five  
** **Desire**

* * *

 **Oliver Merdoch, 21  
** **Victor of the 45th Hunger Games**

He wished they would lighten up a bit.

Oliver rolled his eyes as the other Victors called to him to join them on the stage. The escort hadn't even arrived yet. The reaping wouldn't start for another ten minutes, at least. Where was the harm in having some fun?

Besides, the younger ones loved it. The twelve-year-olds who were facing their first reaping. The older ones who usually wouldn't have to worry about being reaped, thanks to District Five's now-thriving Career system. They could use the distraction from what was about to happen.

And if offering rides on an oversized prairie dog was all it took to distract them, he was happy to oblige.

Harri certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. Despite their bulky size, the prairie dog mutts were actually quite fond of humans once they warmed up to them. Oliver had been the first to discover this, earning the colony's trust before bringing in the rest of his allies. He and his fellow Careers had swept through the underground arena on giant prairie dogs, and, in the end, Harri had saved his life, leaping in front of a poison dart that had been meant for him.

The Capitol had revived the mutt, and Oliver had happily taken him home, along with a female prairie dog to keep him company. The pair now lived on the outskirts of District Five behind Victors' Village, along with their growing number of offspring. But Harri was the only one friendly enough to let two or three of the children ride him at once.

Oliver grinned as he helped a small twelve-year-old girl off Harri's back. "More after the reaping," he promised, leading Harri behind the stage. A few of the younger ones complained that they hadn't gotten a turn, but at least their minds were on that now, rather than the reaping. Rather than the fact that they might be chosen for the Games in a few minutes.

Oliver gave Harri a few more strokes, then bounded up the stairs to the stage, the crowd cheering as he waved for a moment before taking a seat on the end next to Adalyn. Adalyn snorted. "Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Bring that dog here every reaping."

Oliver leaned back in his chair. "First of all, he's not a dog. He's a _prairie_ dog mutt."

"He's a mutt."

"Yes, and he has a name. He's Harri." Oliver stole a glance at Harakuise, who was trying not to smile. Having a giant prairie dog mutt named after him probably wasn't very high on his mentor's list of achievements, but he said nothing. "And I bring him because it's fun."

"The Games aren't _about_ fun."

Oliver smirked. "And _that's_ why you don't teach at the academy anymore. The Games are _all_ about fun."

"I don't teach at the academy anymore because the recruits couldn't meet my standards."

" _I_ didn't meet your standards," Oliver pointed out. "Won anyway." He would never have been Adalyn's choice to volunteer. _No one_ would have. After she'd taken a job teaching at the academy, students had begun to drop out like flies. She was harsh, brutal, needlessly cruel. When he'd told her so, the two had come to blows, and the fight had ended with him lying on the floor in his own blood, with Adalyn standing over him assuring him that he would never make it in the Games.

But he had. He had won. And he'd be damned if he was going to let Adalyn stop him from having fun now.

"Settle down, both of you," Camden snapped. "Oliver, I need you to focus. Adalyn, leave him alone."

 _Ha._ Oliver grinned at Adalyn, who glared but kept her mouth shut. Beside Camden and Adalyn, Sabine chuckled a little. Harakuise, on Sabine's right, shook his head fondly. Tania, at the end of the row, simply rolled her eyes as their escort, Sylvester Marquette, finally arrived, grinning as the district cheered and clapped. Oliver clapped, too, as did the rest of the Victors – some more enthusiastically than others.

"My, my, my, isn't it a _pleasure_ to be back!" Sylvester boomed, his voice filling the square before he even approached the microphone. "Always a joy to be here in such a wonderful district! Are you ready for today's reaping?"

The crowd cheered again, but even Oliver couldn't help noticing that they were a bit more subdued than normal. Most years – or, at least, most years since the Career system had taken hold – the reaping was fun. A few speeches, the formal reaping where the chosen tributes volunteered, and a little parade down to the Justice Building so they could say goodbye. This year…

This year, things were different. But how hard could it be? Harakuise, Sabine, and even Tania had mentored for years before the Career system. Surely they could manage for _one_ more year without trained volunteers. Sure, it meant that there were eighteen-year-olds out there who would never get their shot at the Games, but it wasn't as if they couldn't find something _else_ to do with their lives.

Like raise prairie dogs.

Oliver smiled as Sylvester continued his speech. That wasn't _all_ he was doing. He helped out at the academy, giving lectures on mutts. He hosted children's parties at his house in Victors' Village. He gave tours of the prairie dog town that Harri and his family were quickly digging. He gave the children of District Five – largely an urban district – the chance to see some real, _live_ animals. Never mind that Harri had been genetically engineered by the Gamemakers for a death match. The children didn't care.

Children never cared about things like that.

Oliver nearly jumped as Adalyn nudged him, nodding towards Sylvester, who was approaching the reaping bowl. _Already?_ Oliver leaned forward a little in his chair, waiting. Usually, there wasn't this sense of anticipation. Usually, volunteers had been selected weeks in advance. Everyone knew who they were. For a few weeks, they became celebrities of sorts. And then…

And then they died. Or, at least, most of them did. But the truth was that most of them lived more in those few weeks than some people did in a lifetime. There was something about knowing they might die that made them really appreciate life. That had made _him_ really appreciate his life – enough to realize just how much he wanted to come back to live it.

"Macauley Tierney!"

Oliver perked up at the name. There had been a pair of Tierneys in his class at the academy. They were too old, but maybe a sibling? A cousin? Keeping track of who was related to who was such a pain in the neck.

The girl who stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section _did_ look familiar. One of the hopeful young recruits from the academy. Maybe not the best, maybe not the top of her class, maybe not the one Camden would have picked … but certainly happy to be chosen. She was tall and thin, wearing a light blue and white flower sundress, her dirty-blonde hair in braids on top but hanging loose at the bottom.

But it was her smile that caught Oliver's eye – a proud grin that filled her face as she made her way to the stage through the applauding crowd. Whether they were cheering because they knew her or because they were simply happy that Sylvester had picked someone who actually _wanted_ to be chosen, Oliver wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Macauley was thoroughly enjoying it. Her blue eyes were bright with delight – and maybe even relief. She _wanted_ this, and that was the best thing they could have asked for.

Oliver glanced over at Camden, who was smiling. Relieved. If the rest of the reaping went like this…

"Elliot Stone!"

Just as quickly, Camden's face turned pale, and a look he had rarely seen from her crossed her face. It wasn't fear, exactly. In fact, it was almost … dread. Oliver looked back at the crowd, confused.

There certainly didn't seem to be anything particularly threatening about the boy who stepped out of the eighteen-year-old section – a boy in a short-sleeved denim button-down shirt and black jeans with rips across the knees. He had pale skin, dyed blonde hair, and dark brown eyes. He was tall, but not as tall as Macauley. Muscular and athletic-looking, but that was a good thing … wasn't it? What was Camden so worried about?

Whatever it was, the boy didn't seem to notice. He was silent as the crowd clapped, silent as he took the stage, glancing this way and that. For a moment, the boy looked straight at him. Oliver grinned, giving him a big thumbs-up. A smile broke out on the boy's face, and he finally summoned the courage to wave to the crowd, then turned to Macauley and offered his hand. Macauley shook it firmly, then turned back to Sylvester, waiting.

 _Oh, yeah._ Four tributes this year. It had almost slipped his mind. So far, this could almost have been an ordinary reaping. They were both older, both confident, both at least pretending to be ready for this, at least pretending to enjoy themselves.

"Retro Liu!"

It wasn't a name he knew. Oliver scanned the crowd, and, finally, the twelve-year-old section parted around a boy in a red button-down shirt and black pants. He was about average height for his age, with olive skin and short black hair. For a moment, he stood completely still, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes. But he couldn't. The tears began flowing, but the boy remained firmly planted in place.

The crowd was silent. What were they supposed to do now? Surely they weren't supposed to cheer for a crying twelve-year-old. Even the Peacekeepers on the edge of the crowd were hesitant. It had been years since they'd been forced to intervene at a reaping. Oliver glanced over at Harakuise, who nodded – but not to the Peacekeepers. Quickly, Jai stepped out of the crowd and made his way to the boy, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and whispering something as he pointed to the stage.

Suddenly, another man burst out of the crowd, shoving Jai away from the boy. Jai stepped back, startled, as the man began to gesture frantically. Oliver couldn't tell what they were saying, but he saw Jai wave the Peacekeepers away as he stepped away from the boy, who was already heading for the stage, wiping the tears from his dark brown eyes.

More quickly replaced them, and he was still crying as he took his place beside Macauley and Elliot. Elliot offered his hand for the boy to shake, and the younger boy finally took the hint and did so, then obediently offered his hand to Macauley. Macauley hesitated, but then shook it as Sylvester reached into the bowl one more time.

"Vashti Rii!"

There was no clapping this time, either. The sixteen-year-old parted around a tall, thin boy in a light grey shirt and dark grey pants. He had a light tan, dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes that widened for a moment before a scowl crossed his face. He walked slowly towards the stage, up the stairs, and across to where his district partners stood. Only once he was standing beside them did he let out a dry laugh. "Well, isn't this fun? A dead man walking."

Macauley scoffed. "Well, aren't you a bundle of joy."

Vashti held out his hand to Retro. "At least this one's got the sense not to be happy that he's going to his death."

Retro shook Vashti's hand, but he couldn't hide the tears in his eyes. Elliot stepped forward beside him. "Take it easy; he's just a kid."

"You think being 'just a kid' is going to save him in the Games?"

Macauley glared. "You think being an ass is going to save you?"

"Not one bit. You might as well just kill me now."

Macauley strode forward. "Don't tempt me."

"Easy, easy," Sylvester insisted. "Save it for the Games, all of you. District Five, your tributes – already eager for a fight! What do you think of that?"

The crowd cheered, and slowly began to disperse. As the cameras clicked off, Jai hurried up the stairs and whispered something to Harakuise, who chuckled a little and nodded, then waved Jai over to Oliver. "I'll take them, if you need to discuss…" Jai offered.

Oliver nodded. "Harri's behind the stage. Don't worry; he likes you."

Jai smiled as he led the tributes off the stage. It was tradition to let them ride the giant prairie dog to the Justice Building, but, as Oliver watched them go, he could see that not all of them had taken Jai up on the offer. Jai led the prairie dog, with Macauley and Elliot perched on Harri's back. Vashti walked behind, glaring at the crowd, and Retro trailed even farther behind them.

"Oliver." Camden's voice pulled his attention back to the stage. Tania and Adalyn had already left, leaving him, Camden, Harakuise, and Sabine – apparently the other one Harakuise and Camden had managed to talk into mentoring this year.

"As I was saying," Camden continued pointedly. "Macauley's the most experienced. Been at the academy for years. Probably not someone I would have picked – this year _or_ next – but she'll have to do."

Oliver nodded. "There were two Tierneys in my year at the academy."

"Her brother and sister – Jaxon and Calen. They were both decent prospects, but Jaxon was never really serious about wanting to volunteer, and Calen never quite made the cut. I don't think the parents ever quite forgave me for that, but I have an obligation to pick the best—"

"No one is blaming you, Camden," Harakuise assured her.

"Maybe not for that," Camden agreed. "But Elliot…" She shook her head. "He joined the academy shortly after you won, Oliver. He was … inspired, I guess. A lot of the younger trainees were. Might've had a bit of a crush. I don't know. Anyway, he dropped out after a year or so, decided it wasn't for him. And that's fair; it's not for everyone. But one of the friends he made, Garnet … he stayed on, and…"

Garnet. The name sounded familiar, but didn't sound like one of last year's tributes, or the year before, or the year before…

"There was an accident at the academy," Harakuise finished. "It happens. It wasn't your fault."

"Tell that to Elliot. He lost his best friend. Maybe even more than that; I don't know. They were pretty close."

"You'll beat yourself up more if he loses his life because you couldn't focus," Harakuise pointed out. "Someone else can take Elliot."

"I'll take him," Oliver offered. "You can have Macauley, if you want, Camden."

Camden shook her head. "No. They'll probably want to work together. Sabine, you take Macauley. You've mentored before, and Oliver has experience working with Careers. Help each other – if the two of them want to work together, that is."

Oliver clapped Sabine on the back, then turned to Harakuise. "Fine with me. That leaves Mr. Grumpy Face and the little guy for you two."

"I'll take Vashti," Harakuise quickly offered.

Camden turned, surprised. It wasn't like Harakuise to immediately claim the older option in a pair of tributes. He'd won his Games at fourteen, after all, and last year's Victor had only been twelve. Maybe neither of the remaining tributes seemed particularly promising, but…

"You sure?" Camden asked.

Harakuise nodded. "Yes. It's best for everyone."

Camden cocked an eyebrow. "You know something."

"Always."

"What is it?"

"It's not important."

"If this is about you and Jai—"

Harakuise cut her off. "Like I _said_ , it's not important. I just want to make sure it doesn't get in the way of things that _are_. Remember, Camden, we're not here to be _liked_. We're not here to be appreciated. Our job is to keep these kids alive as long as we can. You do that for Retro, and I'll do that for Vashti. Clear?"

Camden nodded. "Clear."

"Clear," Sabine echoed.

Oliver threw his hand up in a playful salute. "Clear, sir."

"Well, aren't you just a bunch of good little soldiers," came a voice from behind them. Oliver turned to see Jai, with Harri trailing behind. "You've trained them well."

Harakuise smirked. "A little _too_ well, maybe. How are our tributes taking it?"

Jai shrugged. "About as well as you'd expect. The girl's delighted, and the boys … well, they're handling it in their own ways."

"I guess we're ready, then," Camden agreed, giving Jai a hug. "See you in a few weeks."

Jai smiled. "See you, kiddo." He turned to Oliver. "I'll look after Harri for you."

Oliver nodded. "He looks after himself pretty well."

"Goes with the name, I suppose," Jai reasoned, giving Harakuise a friendly punch on the shoulder. "See you soon."

"Sooner than last year, I hope," Harakuise agreed. Last year's Games had lasted twenty-six days, the longest on record. And after all was said and done, a little girl from District _Twelve_ , of all places, had come out on top.

But that was the way the Games went. Unexpected things happened. The Games didn't always reward the strongest, or the smartest, or the best prepared, as his fellow trainers wanted their young Careers to believe. Sometimes people got lucky. And sometimes luck favored someone altogether unexpected.

He just hoped that it would favor District Five this year.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17**

She wished this moment could last even longer.

Mac grinned as her parents entered the room, along with Calen and Jaxon. Her mother was smiling. Finally smiling. Calen was clearly jealous. Year after year, she and Jaxon had been passed over when Camden had selected volunteers. Year after year, Mac had waited patiently for her turn while her older siblings had aged out of the academy. She knew she hadn't been Camden's choice to volunteer this year. Maybe she wouldn't have been her choice next year, either.

But none of that mattered. She was here. She was going into the Games – something neither of her siblings could say. Something that they would never be able to match. For once, the look on her mother's face was … well, if not proud, then at least satisfied. Pride would come later – once Mac came home. Once she won.

"Well, I guess you've got a better chance than a normal year," Calen reasoned, trying to hide the envy in her voice. "You're probably one of the best-trained tributes this year."

" _The_ best," Mac assured her confidently. She'd watched the reapings in One, Two, and Four. Most of the others who looked like they had _any_ training at all were young – a twelve-year-old from Two, a thirteen-year-old from One. She could do better than them. She could do better than _any_ of them.

She could do this.

There wasn't much for her family to say after that. Nothing they could do except agree. Yes, she had a good chance. Yes, she would probably be coming home. Yes, she could easily be District Five's fourth Victor in the span of a dozen years. Wouldn't that be something?

Before long, all of them were gone – all except Jaxon, who lingered for a moment after the Peacekeepers came to fetch the others. He waited until the door closed behind their parents, then shook his head. "Listen. You be careful in there, all right."

"Of course."

"Just because there aren't many other tributes with training doesn't mean you're guaranteed to win. I mean, look at who won last year. Look at who won the year before that. Careers don't win it every time. The most prepared tributes, the strongest tributes, the oldest tributes – that's not a guaranteed win. There _are_ no guarantees."

What was he saying? "You don't think I can do this?"

"Of course I do. I'm just saying that you can't afford to make assumptions. You can't afford to get too cocky. I don't want to spoil your fun, but—"

"Then don't." Mac wrapped her arms around her brother. "Of _course_ I'll be careful. You just watch. I'll be home before you know it."

"As long as you're home _alive_ , I don't care how long it takes." He shook his head. "Of course, the sooner, the better. I don't expect you to beat Adalyn's record for shortest Games, but … well, try to make it quick."

Mac grinned. "Deal. I'll win as quick as I can, and you … you just try not to worry." She grinned as Jaxon nodded a little. The door opened, and then he was gone. Mac sat back in her chair, grinning.

She just hoped she could live up to her end of the deal.

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18**

He wished Garnet could see him now.

Elliot did his best to smile as his parents and younger sister left, leaving him alone with his thoughts. They hadn't said much, but that was all right. What were they supposed to say? Be safe? Come back soon? He would certainly try his best, whether they said those things or not. His parents had. Louise hadn't. Ever since he'd dropped out of training, his little sister had considered him a disappointment, but that had never really bothered him before. Why should he let it get to him now?

Elliot shook his head, pacing across the room once more. Garnet would have known what to say. He'd _always_ known the right thing to say, the right thing to do to bring Elliot out of his shell. When he'd died, it was as if he'd taken a piece of Elliot with him. A piece that it had taken Elliot a long time to get back.

Elliot whirled around as the door swung open again, this time for his friend Tulisa. She was trying to smile. Trying to look confident. Elliot smiled back. "It's kind of funny, isn't it."

Tulisa shook her head. "What?"

"All those names, all those Careers from the academy they could have picked, and they pick the one who dropped out of training to help _make_ weapons, instead. I just can't get away from this."

"You sound almost…"

"What?"

"Happy."

"Do I?"

"A bit," Tulisa admitted. "Did you _want_ to be picked?"

Elliot hesitated, but then shook his head. "No. No, if I'd wanted this, I would've stayed at the academy. It's not what I would have wanted, not what I would have chosen, but … well, now that I'm here, I might as well try to make the best of it."

Tulisa nodded. "I guess that's the only thing to do now."

It was. It wasn't as if he would wake up tomorrow in District Five if he just wished hard enough. Wasn't as if he could make the Games vanish with a thought. He was here. He was a tribute. That wasn't something he could fight, wasn't something he could hide from or run from or ignore. He _had_ to do this. There wasn't a choice.

"I was watching the Victors after the four of you left," Tulisa admitted. "I couldn't hear all of what they said, but I think Oliver's your mentor. You're lucky."

Lucky. In spite of himself, Elliot could feel himself blushing. Oliver was the reason he'd joined the academy in the first place. He'd made winning the Games look so easy, so … so _fun_. Now, of course, he was old enough to realize it wasn't all fun and games. But still…

Elliot nodded. "Thanks. That's … that's good to know."

"I know he'll do his best. To help you survive, I mean. But Elliot…"

"Yeah."

"Everybody makes mistakes. Even mentors. They … they can be wrong. Give advice that worked for them, but for you … just trust _yourself_. He's not going to be in the arena with you. You can't rely on him to—"

"To keep me alive," Elliot finished. "I know." And he did. Even the trainees at the academy couldn't always rely on their trainers to protect them, to keep them safe from making stupid mistakes. Garnet … There hadn't been anyone to protect _him_. And it would be even more dangerous in the Games.

He just hoped he was ready.

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16**

Part of him wished they would just kill him and get it over with.

Vashti glared as the door opened again. His father had already come and gone, along with his two younger brothers. He hadn't been expecting anyone else. Certainly no one at school, especially since he'd dropped out. There was no one else. No one who would miss him. No one who would care if he died.

 _When_ he died. It wasn't really a matter of _if_. Not in his condition. He wanted to live as badly as anyone else – maybe even more. But his body … there was no way his body would survive the Games. Most of the time, the Games were a death sentence. For someone like him…

"I didn't think I'd have any competition," Harakuise remarked, glancing around the room. "You don't seem like the sort with many friends."

Vashti scoffed. "What gave it away?"

"Must be your charming demeanor," Harakuise chuckled. "Either that or your pleasant looks." He took a step closer, nodding to Vashti's arm guards. "Impressive craftsmanship. Your own work?"

Vashti nodded. "They're not for decoration."

"Oh, I know. You didn't think it was a coincidence, did you?"

"What?"

"All those supplies that found their way to junk piles near your house. Did you really think a Peacekeeper would just _throw_ his weapon away – even if it was broken? I've been watching you for a while now."

Vashti couldn't help staring. He _had_ assumed it was a coincidence. Ever since learning about his condition, he'd been so focused on trying to protect himself – trying to protect his weak, fragile body – that he hadn't really thought twice about where he'd found some of his supplies. But did it really matter? Vashti shook his head. "What do you expect? A thank you?"

"Expect? No. Given the circumstances, I probably wouldn't thank me, either. In any case, the supplies were the simple part. _You're_ the one who made good use of them. How many times has your makeshift armor protected you from an injury – an injury that could be deadly to someone like you?"

 _Someone like you._ The doctors in Five weren't as good as they were in the Capitol, but ever since Career training had started to bring in more wealth, things had been improving. Enough for the doctors to be able to identify what was wrong with him … and what had killed his mother. "You can say it," Vashti spat. "A hemophiliac. And does it really matter how often I've been able to protect myself? Nothing's going to protect me in the Games."

Harakuise settled into a chair next to him. "Perhaps."

Vashti scoffed. "Don't pretend you can protect me. I'm not a child."

"I wasn't saying I could. But if you find the right allies … you'd be surprised how far that can go. Do you think I won because of my physical capabilities?"

No. He hadn't. Before they'd started training Careers, no one in District Five had won through sheer brute strength. Still, Harakuise hadn't had a disadvantage quite like his. "That's different."

"Of course it is. Every year is different. I'm not saying it'll be easy. All I'm saying is … don't give up yet. You might surprise yourself."

Vashti shook his head. Maybe Harakuise's words would have swayed someone less aware of his own weaknesses. But he'd spend the last few years compensating for them. Protecting himself from them. It had been hard enough when there _weren't_ dozens of other teens trying to kill him.

What hope did he really have?

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12**

Part of him wished they would just leave.

Retro sat perfectly still as his father continued to talk. He nodded along, but he was barely following what his father was saying. Everything seemed so wrong, so _different_ now. Distant, almost – as if his father was talking to someone else. Maybe he was. Maybe nothing he said now mattered.

Certainly none of the plans his parents had made mattered now. The plans for Retro to take over the little video arcade the family had built next to the training center to give the younger kids – the ones who weren't interested in training for the Games – something to occupy their time while the older ones trained. The plans for him to finish at the top of his class, to marry some fine young woman, to live the same sort of life they'd lived … all those plans were gone now.

Retro breathed a silent sigh of relief once they finally left. In all his father's words, there hadn't been a word of apology for what he'd done at the reaping. Sure, they'd all been upset, but had he really needed to yell at _Jai_? Surely his father knew how friendly Jai was with the Victors. With Harakuise.

Retro clenched his fists. Of course he knew. That was the reason for the yelling. He hadn't wanted someone like Jai near his son. Sure, his father was trying to protect him, but he may have ruined Retro's chances of making a good impression on his mentor. Whoever his mentor was. With what his father had done, he'd probably get stuck with someone who'd never even mentored before. Adalyn, maybe. Maybe she'd even kill him before the Games…

Retro glanced up as the door creaked open. Who else would be coming? Ysa, maybe. Or maybe Peter. Retro braced himself, doing his best to put on a smile. However frustrated he might be with his parents, that was no reason to take it out on his friends.

But it wasn't one of his friends who entered. It was Camden. Harakuise and Jai's daughter. Retro froze. What was he supposed to say to her? Should he apologize for the way his father had acted? But she didn't _look_ upset. In fact, she was smiling a little. "Hey, kid. I'm your mentor."

Retro's eyes widened a little. She'd picked _him_? Camden had founded the Career system in District Five. She'd only been mentoring for a little more than a decade, but she'd trained two Victors, and personally mentored one. And she'd picked _him_ as her tribute? "Why me?" Retro asked, his voice squeaking a little more than he would've liked.

Camden took a seat next to him. "I had my reasons."

Retro looked away. "I … I'm sorry … about what my father said at the reaping."

Camden shook her head. "Your father doesn't matter now."

Retro nodded a little. That was what he wanted to believe. That his parents – their hopes, their plans, their expectations – wouldn't matter once he was in the arena. But would it really be that easy to forget…?

"I know," Camden agreed, as if she'd read his mind. "My parents have always been important to me, too. Harakuise helped me train, he mentored me, but … he still wasn't _with_ me in the arena. That was me. _Only_ me. Just like it's only going to be you in the arena. Not your father. _You._ "

That was what he'd wanted. Wasn't it? What he'd _always_ wanted. To get away. But as freeing as it sounded, it also sounded almost … lonely. There would be no one in the arena to help him, no one to keep him company or tell him where to go or what to do or—

"But you'll help me, won't you?" Retro asked softly. "I know you won't be in the arena with me, but before … you'll be there to help."

Camden smiled warmly. "Of course. That's what we're here for – all of us. It's our job to help keep you alive. Me, Oliver, Sabine … Harakuise. That's what we do. It's not about us. It's about bringing someone home alive." She laid a hand on his shoulder.

"And I'll do my best to make sure it's you."

* * *

" _Art thou afeard to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?"_


	10. District Six: Know

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Halfway through the reapings! Updates should be a bit quicker from this point on, partly because _Mistakes of the Past_ is getting farther along and partly because we're getting to the districts that have two or three tributes instead of four or five.

Thank you to _Little Knight Mik_ and _So hard to choose usernames_ for Charu and Lena, respectively.

* * *

 **District Six  
** **Know**

* * *

 **Nicodemus Ford, 40  
** **Victor of the 26th Hunger Games**

"We both know how this is gonna go, Nic."

Nicodemus nodded a little as he and Duke headed for the square. He knew what Duke was going to say, of course – the same thing he said every year. But there was no point in trying to interrupt him. He was upset, and he had every right to be. And as long as he kept talking to Nicodemus, maybe he would have the sense not to say anything of the sort to Vernon.

Because they both knew that wouldn't do any good. Vernon was convinced that he was doing something good. Something useful. He was ridding the district of kids who were trouble. Kids who were thieves or gang members or drug addicts. Children who were adding nothing to society and taking away from those who did. Children who wouldn't be missed.

And maybe that made sense – from an outside perspective. Vernon was technically a mentor, but only in name. He spent the Games drunk or worse, never really getting to _know_ their tributes. So it was always easier for him to judge, easier to dismiss them as useless. Easier for him to say that no one in the district would care that they were gone. He didn't know their names, their faces, their stories. If he did…

Then what? Maybe he would still go through with it. In the name of protecting children who might otherwise be reaped. Children like his own son, Luke, who had died in the Games a year before Nicodemus' victory. That was why he did it, Nicodemus was certain.

But that didn't make it right.

"Even the other districts expect it now," Duke continued. "District Six. Where the tributes are tough criminals, where they ain't wanted, where no one cares whether they come back – an' maybe the tributes don't care, either. It makes it easier for 'em, you know – when it comes to killing our tributes. Why feel bad about killin' someone who ain't got a family to miss 'em? It's easier for someone to put their own lives first when they know the other person ain't got much to go back to."

Nicodemus nodded along, pushing his wheelchair towards the square while Duke walked alongside. Most people avoided them. Even the ones who knew Duke knew better than to mess with him on reaping day. Nicodemus glanced around the square. It was even quieter than a regular year. Maybe the quell twist meant that there would only be two tributes instead of four, but that didn't change the feeling of dread in the square.

Or maybe it was just him. Nicodemus avoided looking up as the pair of them headed for the stage. But he knew what was there, all the same – above their heads as they approached. Ten wheels, still mounted on posts above the stage, a reminder of what had happened nine years ago.

"Nic?" Duke's voice broke through his own thoughts, and he realized he had stopped. Duke took a few steps back towards him, his peg leg thumping against the pavement. "Anything I can do?"

Nicodemus shook his head. There was nothing Duke could do. Nothing anyone could do. It happened every time. Every year. He couldn't shake the memory of what had happened. The pain. The terror. For a moment, it was as if he was strapped to one of the wheels again. Helpless. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch as the hammer came down…

Nicodemus closed his eyes, trying to breathe. Trying not to think. He could feel Duke's hand around his, pressing gently. But not squeezing. Not too hard. As if he was still worried that squeezing too hard might break him.

Maybe it would.

"It's all right, Nic. You're safe." And he was. As safe as he could be. But that didn't make it any easier. Finally, he opened his eyes again. People were watching, even though they were pretending not to. Waiting to see what he would do.

Nicodemus squeezed Duke's hand gently, his own hands still shaking. He would do what he did every year. What he had to do. He would do his job.

Because no one else was going to.

Nicodemus nodded a little, and Duke let go, then pushed his wheelchair up the ramp and onto the stage before taking a seat beside Vernon. Nicodemus wheeled himself over alongside, trying not to look. Not to look up. Not to look at the crowd. Not to look out at the faces of the children who might be chosen today.

 _Breathe._

 _You're safe._

He was safe. But somewhere out there were two children who weren't. Nicodemus took a deep breath as District Six's new escort, Tricia Coventry, took the stage, trying to smile. Ever since the 42nd Games, none of District Six's escorts had lasted more than a year. Some left for other districts, while some retired from mentoring completely. It was as if there was something unlucky about the position since…

Since Phoebe had tried to kill him. Nicodemus couldn't help noticing that Tricia avoided his gaze as she made her way towards the reaping bowl. What had happened between him and Phoebe wasn't public knowledge, but it was no secret that she had resigned quietly after only a year, and that he'd had something to do with it.

Something to do with it. If not for him, she would have been executed. That should have been enough, but it wasn't. It was never enough. Living somewhere in peace on the outskirts of the Capitol, she surely still blamed him for thwarting the rebels' plans in District Six. For calling for peace, for an end to the violence. For collaborating with the Capitol in order to end the bloodshed.

Tricia, on the other hand, seemed content to ignore him completely. "Hello, District Six!" she boomed into the microphone. "I'm absolutely _thrilled_ to be your new escort!"

"Sure," Duke mumbled, and Nicodemus hid a smile. Maybe she was actually happy to be here; it was hard to tell. Or maybe she simply saw District Six as a good place to start, since no one else seemed to want it. Maybe she was hoping to be moved to another district – a _better_ district – after a year or two.

"As I'm sure you all know," Tricia continued, "only two tributes will be required this year due to the quell twist. And our first lucky tribute is…"

She dipped her hand into the bowl and made a show of swirling the papers around. Again and again and again. This was her first reaping, and she was clearly savoring the moment. After what seemed like an eternity, she pulled out a single slip of paper. "Lena Khatri!"

There was silence as the sixteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a light blue well-fitted dress that hung to her knees. Only one person didn't move away – a girl with the same tan skin, the same long, thick black hair and light brown eyes, but her dress grey and long. As the first girl began moving towards the stage, the second one strode forward. "Wait! Wait, she's not the one you want! There's been a mistake!"

"Damn," Duke muttered. "She's right about a mistake." Nicodemus said nothing as the pair made their way towards the stage, arguing in hushed whispers. Duke was right. He knew one of the girls, but only their voices could have allowed him to tell them apart. The girl in grey – Lana – was the familiar one. He'd seen her upon occasion in the square, when he'd helped her recover after a rather severe lashing. The girl in blue was certainly her sister, and any other year, Lana might be able to volunteer to take her place. But this year…

Finally, the Peacekeepers moved to block the girls' path. "Which one of you is Lena?" Tricia asked, more than a little befuddled.

"I am," the girl in blue admitted, taking a step towards the Peacekeepers.

"But I'm the one who should go," the other girl insisted, turning to Vernon. " _I'm_ the one you wanted. Please. Just let me—"

"I'm sorry, young lady," Tricia interrupted. "No volunteers are allowed this year."

"But it was supposed to be _me_ ," Lana insisted, gripping her sister's arm tightly.

"Lana—" the other girl started.

"No! I won't let them take you!"

"You don't have a choice," Duke interrupted, making his way towards them. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. That won't help your sister."

"But she can't—"

"Yes, I _can_ ," Lena interrupted, breaking away from her sister and making her way up the stairs towards Duke, who took her hand and led her towards Tricia as the Peacekeepers escorted her sister back towards the crowd.

Lena was still shaking, and there were tears in her eyes, but she managed to hold them back as Tricia reached into the bowl again. "Well, well, wasn't that exciting? And we're only half done! Our second tribute is … Charu Varma!"

Immediately, the eighteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a blue, long-sleeved dress, black tights, and flat-soled black shoes. A thin blue head scarf covered most of her dark brown hair, which was somewhere between wavy and curly. Her skin was lightly tanned, her eyes a dark brown. And she was … smiling.

Nicodemus glanced over at Duke as the girl came closer, still grinning. Duke gave a little shrug; he didn't know the girl, either. But she certainly didn't seem to mind being chosen for a death match. She was still grinning as she took the stage, but, once she came closer, she didn't look excitedas much as she looked almost … relieved. What could be so bad that she thought the Games were a better option?

Or maybe she was simply acting. Duke had pretended, three years ago, that he was glad he'd been chosen. He'd made a show of claiming he would have volunteered anyway, for the chance to kill a rival gang member without repercussions. But Charu didn't give any indication of _why_ she was happy to be chosen. Instead, she simply held out her hand to Lena – a hand that Nicodemus could now see was decorated with henna tattoos.

Lena hesitated for a moment, maybe wondering the same thing that everyone else was. Wondering how someone could possibly be _happy_ to be chosen for the Games. But, eventually, she took Charu's hand, and Tricia applauded eagerly. "District Six, your tributes! Lena Khatri and Charu Varma! It looks like this is going to be _quite_ a year!"

"You can say that again," Duke mumbled as the cameras switched off. He turned to Charu. "Okay, kid. Spill. What're you so happy about?"

Charu glanced around – from Duke to Nicodemus to Vernon and back to Lena. "I … this was better than what would have happened to me today otherwise." She turned to Vernon. "I don't know how you knew, but … thank you."

Nicodemus raised an eyebrow. Even Duke hadn't tried to _thank_ Vernon for making sure he was reaped. What was Charu so desperate to get away from? "You're welcome," Vernon mumbled before turning to Lena. "Sorry I mixed you two up. Won't happen again," he managed before staggering off the stage.

There were tears welling in Lena's eyes, but Charu slipped an arm around her shoulder. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. You'll be okay. Let's get you to the Justice Building, all right?"

Lena nodded weakly as Charu led her off, with a few Peacekeepers in tow. Duke shook his head. "Not exactly what I was expecting."

It wasn't. Their tributes weren't what either of them had been expecting, but that didn't change what they had to do now. It didn't change their job. Their job was to keep one of them alive, bring one of them home.

But what would either of them be coming back to?

* * *

 **Lena Khatri, 16**

"I don't know how this could have happened."

Lena held her tongue as her parents held her tightly, muttering over and over again that everything had gone wrong, that this shouldn't have happened, that she didn't deserve this. And maybe she didn't. Maybe no one did.

But the truth was she knew _exactly_ how this could have happened.

The fact that the reapings were rigged was no secret in District Six, but she'd never been particularly concerned about that. The reapings were targeted at people who caused trouble. Teenagers who lived on the streets, who stole, who sold drugs or who took part in gangs. Partly as punishment, partly because they would be able to handle themselves in the Games … but mostly to protect those who Vernon thought didn't deserve it.

People like her.

She'd warned Lana. She'd try to tell her sister to stop, to leave the gang she'd joined up with, to avoid anything that might lead to her getting reaped – at least for a few more years, until she would be safe – but it had never crossed her mind that her sister's actions might put _her_ in danger.

But here she was. And Lana had refused to come in – at least with their parents. As soon as their parents were gone, however, Lana came barging in. "He's going to pay for this. He meant to have _me_ reaped. I know he did. But the idiot must have mixed up our names. I'm sorry, Lena. I'm _so_ sorry."

Lena shook her head. "It's all right."

"It's _not_ all right. You're going to be in the Hunger Games, and it should be _me_."

"It _shouldn't_ be you," Lena pointed out. "It shouldn't be _anyone_. But it _is_ me, and going after Vernon isn't going to help. Do you want to do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Don't tell our parents that you were the one who was meant to be reaped."

Lana scoffed. "After what happened at the reaping? There's no way they don't know."

"Then find somewhere else to stay for a while. I don't want them to blame you. If don't want you to blame yourself if I…"

"Don't start thinking like that," Lana insisted.

"Lana, there are thirty-five of us. Only one of us is going to come out alive. If I die … I just want you to know it wasn't your fault. _This_ isn't your fault."

"But if I hadn't … If I wasn't…"

"It might still have been me. If the reapings weren't rigged, it could have been _anyone_. It might still have been me. Please … _please_ just don't blame yourself for … for whatever happens." She was barely holding back her tears, but Lana's eyes held only rage. Lena hoped she would have the sense not to do anything rash, but if she died…

No. No, she would be coming home. She had to. If she didn't, her sister would never forgive herself. Their _parents_ would never forgive her. She couldn't do that – to any of them. She would have to win.

It was the only way to hold her family together.

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18**

She still wasn't sure how he'd known.

Charu leaned back against the door of her room in the Justice Building. Her family had come and gone, but she'd refused to see them. Because she knew who was with them. She wasn't sure how they would react to the fact that she'd been happy at the reaping, but it couldn't be good. They would want to know why, and she didn't have time to explain. She wasn't sure she wanted to. Maybe she didn't want them to know. Maybe they didn't _deserve_ to know.

Maybe none of it mattered anymore.

"Charu?"

A voice at the door. But it wasn't her father's, or any of her brother's. And it certainly wasn't Dinesh's. She'd never heard his voice so concerned. "Who is it?"

"Duke. Your new mentor. Open up."

Charu sprang to her feet and opened the door. "I'm sorry. I thought you were—"

"Who? Who were you avoiding? What are you runnin' away from?"

"What makes you think I'm running?"

"No one in their right mind is happy to be reaped unless they've got a damn good reason. An' you don't strike me as crazy. So … what is it?"

"It's not really any of your business what I—"

"I'm your mentor. Everything's my business. Now are you going to tell me, or should I run after your family an' ask why you didn't want to see them?" He patted his peg leg and turned to go. "I ain't so great at running anymore, but—"

"I was going to be married," Charu blurted out.

Duke turned, closing the door behind him. "Okay…"

Charu looked away, down at the day-old mehndi patterns on her hands. "We held a ceremony last night. I was going to be married after the reaping. And I…"

"You don't like him," Duke finished.

It wasn't just that. Yes, Dinesh was spoiled. Arrogant. Vile, even. It was a marriage their parents had arranged years ago, just after Charu had realized…

"It's not just that I don't like _him_ ," Charu explained. "I don't like _any_ boy. I've never … my parents would never understand. They would never approve if they knew. But now it doesn't matter."

"Now it doesn't matter that you like girls."

Charu blushed a little. But, finally, she nodded. "Yes." It felt good to say it out loud. She'd never told anyone – not even her sister. Certainly not her parents. But now it didn't matter who she told. It wouldn't matter who knew. "I'll understand if you want to … you know. Switch tributes."

Duke chuckled. "You think it makes a bit of difference to me? Just don't go falling in love in the arena, and I don't care who you fall for once we get back, ya hear?"

 _Once we get back._ He was already assuming that she would be the one coming home. That she had it in her to win. She had been so relieved at the thought of getting away from her family, from her marriage, that she hadn't really thought about what might come next. She wasn't sure what she would do if she was the one to come home. She wasn't sure what her _family_ would do.

Maybe it wouldn't matter.

* * *

" _What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?"_


	11. District Seven: Grow

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thank you to _Acereader55_ and _MornieGalad Baggins_ for Nephelle and Thomas, respectively.

* * *

 **District Seven  
** **Grow**

* * *

 **Casper Hensley, 39  
** **Victor of the 29th Hunger Games**

He'd almost gotten used to having an extra tribute.

Casper glanced around at the crowd that was already forming as he, Kurt, and Freda made their way to the square. Despite the growing tension, the teens seemed to be moving a bit quicker than usual. Maybe they could feel it, too – a sense of relief at only sending two tributes this year. It felt strange, the idea of being relieved at a Quell. But the other part of the twist – a ban on volunteers – didn't really mean much for their district. And since he and Hazel were the only Victors…

Casper held back a chuckle. Laughing at the reaping would be disrespectful. But Kurt couldn't help but notice. "What's so funny?"

Casper shook his head. "Must be the first time having only two Victors was _good_ for a district." Seven and Twelve only had two Victors, while Three, Six, Eight, and Ten only had three. All six districts were sending two tributes each. Maybe it wasn't fair – punishing the districts that had been more successful in the Games – but he had to admit it was a nice change. And with Careers who weren't as well prepared, maybe District Seven would stand a better chance.

Maybe. But there were no guarantees. Even though _their_ district was sending fewer tributes this year, there would still be thirty-five tributes in the arena. And only one of them would be coming out again.

"I'm just glad our district has _you_ ," Freda reminded him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "We all are. You and Hazel – you're a reminder that the Games aren't completely hopeless."

Not completely hopeless. Casper managed a smile at that. When he'd been chosen for the Games, "completely hopeless" was exactly how most people would have described him. He'd broken down at the reaping, begging for his life. Until Lydia had died in the arena, he hadn't been sure he would have it in him to kill.

But when she had died in his arms, everything had changed. His district partner. His friend. Kurt and Freda's daughter. He'd promised himself then and there that he would make it home – for her. For them. And for himself. It hadn't been easy, but he'd made it.

But what good was that, if he hadn't been able to bring anyone else home?

Casper gave Freda one last hug before taking the stage and sliding into a seat beside Hazel. He knew Hazel had spent years asking herself the same thing. She'd had to wait more than twenty-five years to bring home a Victor. Now it had been more than twenty years since his own victory.

Casper and Hazel exchanged a glance as their escort, Miranda Canestro, joined them onstage. Maybe this was the year they would finally bring home another Victor. Maybe. Right now, all they could do was hope that Miranda drew the name of someone who would have a chance.

Someone who would have a chance. He knew better than anyone that it wasn't always obvious from a reaping who would have a chance in the Games. Even age didn't mean as much as some people thought. He'd been eighteen when he was reaped. Hazel had been twelve. Both of them had won the Games. Both of them had survived.

Both of them were still here.

"Hello, District Seven, and thank you for such a warm welcome!" Miranda exclaimed, even though she'd received nothing of the sort. The Capitol's response to the rebellion during the 41st Games may have frightened the districts back into submission, but their relationship would never be 'warm.' No Capitolite would ever receive a 'warm' welcome in District Seven.

Still, it didn't hurt to pretend – and it might even help their tributes' chances. So he smiled a little at the crowd as Miranda made her way towards the single reaping bowl in the center of the stage. Might was well try to look confident. Might as well try to appear certain that this would finally be the year he and Hazel would bring home another Victor.

Miranda reached into the bowl and quickly drew a name. Maybe she wanted this over with as quickly as the rest of them. "District Seven, your very first tribute for the second Quarter Quell is … Thomas Elliot!"

The crowd grew silent as the eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black slacks. He was tall – easily more than six feet – with dark, scraggly hair and a bit of a tan. His dark brown eyes remained fixed on the stage, confused, as the Peacekeepers made their way towards him.

Finally, when they'd almost reached him, he took a step forward. Then another. Slowly, as if in a daze, he made his way forward to the stage, nearly tripping over the first step. Silently, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. He shook his head and closed his mouth again, trying not to look out at the crowd. Trying not to break down. Trying to keep it together as well as he could.

Miranda nodded a little, then turned her attention back to the reaping bowl. She smiled as she quickly drew another name. "And our second – and final – tribute this year is … Nephelle Sorena!"

This time, it was the seventeen-year-old section that parted around a girl in a knee-length dark green dress. She had tan skin and long hair that was dark brown at the top but faded to a lighter brown – almost blonde – at the ends. She was about average height, but seemed shorter at first because she was crouched down low, as if hoping that maybe no one would notice her. Maybe if they couldn't find her, they would simply pick someone else.

But, of course, they didn't. As the Peacekeepers started to head towards her, she stood up straight and stepped out of the crowd, glancing around blankly as if searching for something. Or maybe waiting for something. But there was nothing to wait for. No one could volunteer this year even if they wanted to. And chances were, no one would volunteer any other year, either. Maybe the girl wasn't the tallest or the strongest, but she was older, and she seemed healthy. That would be good enough for most of the district. Enough to convince them that she had a chance.

For her part, the girl seemed to be trying to convince herself of the same thing as she took the stage, her brown eyes straying to the crowd as a faint smile crept over her face. She straightened up a little bit more as she turned to the boy, offering her hand. He took a step forward and shook it, still shaking his head. Still not quite believing what was going on.

"District Seven, your tributes!" Miranda boomed, but the crowd remained silent. That was expected. He couldn't remember the last time the crowd in District Seven had actually _applauded_ at a reaping. Had it ever happened? Certainly not as his, and not since then.

Fortunately, Miranda knew better than to expect anything else from them. She nodded to the workers to switch off the cameras and quickly dismissed the crowd. "Congratulations!" she beamed, placing a hand on each of the tribute's shoulders as she led them towards the Justice Building. "A Quarter Quell! Isn't this exciting?"

"That's one word for it," Casper muttered as soon as Miranda was out of earshot.

"Could be worse," Hazel reminded him. And she was right. The tributes could have been younger. They could have cried. They could have been like … well, like him. Instead, the pair of them just seemed numb. They could work with that. Numbness would eventually wear off. They would grow out of it.

It was just a matter of whether they would grow out of it in time.

"You have a preference?" Casper asked. Hazel shook her head. "I'll take the boy, then," Casper offered.

"Sounds good to me," Hazel agreed.

It didn't, of course. None of it sounded good. Nothing to do with the Games _ever_ sounded good. But it could certainly be a lot worse, and this wasn't the time to complain. This was the time to buckle down and get to work.

Maybe this time, things would be different.

* * *

 **Thomas Elliot, 18**

He'd almost gotten used to making it through the reaping safely.

Thomas shook his head as Hodden paced the room. "It's just not fair," Hodden insisted. "It was your last year. They just had to pick someone else – _anyone_ else – just one more time."

Thomas nodded silently as his older brother fumed. He wasn't saying anything Thomas hadn't thought himself. Three years ago, when Hodden had made it through his final reaping safely, Thomas had begun to relax a little. Hodden had always taken more tesserae than him, after all. If _he_ could make it through the reapings…

But it hadn't been enough. His name had only been in the bowl seven times – the minimum for an eighteen-year-old – and that still hadn't been enough to save him. "It's not fair," Hodden repeated, as if he couldn't think of anything else to say. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe there _was_ nothing else to say to someone who had just been chosen for the Games.

Because it _wasn't_ fair. But that would be true regardless of who had been chosen. The Games weren't fair at all, no matter who was in them. This time, it just happened to be him.

"It's all right," Thomas said quietly after Hodden finally stopped grumbling for a moment. "Really, it's all right. Maybe I can do this."

Hodden turned, surprised, as if he'd forgotten that Thomas was even there. "Of course you can. I'm counting on it. I didn't mean to say that—"

"That I didn't have a chance, and that's what's so unfair?"

"I didn't mean that. I just meant it's not fair – what you'll have to do to get back."

Thomas nodded a little. Was that what he'd really meant? Maybe. He didn't want to believe that even his brother would write him off as a lost cause from the start. He had as much chance as anyone, after all. Especially this year. Without Careers from the usual districts, he would probably be one of the oldest tributes in the arena. The other tributes might even assume he was a threat.

Yes. Yes, that was it. They wouldn't write him off. They had no reason to. All the Capitol audience knew about him – all the other _tributes_ knew about him – came from the few minutes they'd seen of the reaping. And that hadn't gone so badly. Well, not as badly as it _could_ have. He'd been chosen for the Games, yes, but he hadn't broken down crying. He hadn't started begging for his life and made a complete fool out of himself. It could certainly have been worse.

But it could also have been better. Hearing someone else's name – _anyone_ else's name – would have been better. He'd only had one more year. One more year, and he would have been safe.

Thomas shook his head as the Peacekeepers knocked on the door, letting Hodden know his time was up. "You can do this, little brother," Hodden insisted, wrapping Thomas in a hug. "We're all counting on you."

 _Counting on you_. It had been a while since anyone had been _counting_ on him to do anything. Hodden had always been the responsible one. The one who knew what he was doing. The one others could count on. But now Hodden was counting on _him_ – counting on his ability to come back from the Games.

And he wasn't going to let his brother down.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17**

She couldn't let them down now.

Nephelle wrapped her family in one last hug before the Peacekeepers came to take them away. "You can do this," her older sister Sephora insisted, squeezing her tightly. Nephelle blinked away her tears as the door closed behind her family. She hoped her sister was right. She couldn't imagine what it would do to them if…

If she lost the Games. If she _died._ She'd been trying not to even think the word since the reaping. She'd been too busy trying to hold herself together for her family's sake. But now there was no one else to reassure. No reason not to think about what would have to happen eventually. She was going into the Hunger Games, and only one thing was certain. If she wanted to make it out again, she would have to be stronger.

Stronger than this. Stronger than she'd been for the last few minutes. Stronger than she'd ever needed to be in her life. Strength wasn't usually something that was expected of the district's planters. Patience, yes. Perseverance. Balance. A keen eye for detail and how the plants were growing. But strength … that was something the district's lumberjacks needed. She'd never had the strength for that. How could they expect her to suddenly have what it took to win the Games?

Suddenly, her thoughts were interrupted as the door creaked open one more time, revealing her friend Avora, holding something in her hands. "I thought you might want this," Avora offered, holding out a small sapling. A cutting, Nephelle knew, from one of the first trees she'd ever planted.

A willow.

Nephelle smiled a little as Avora placed the tiny sapling in her hands. She'd always had a special fondness for willow trees. _The willow is deceptively strong,_ her mother always said. _It bends, but it does not break._

Deceptively strong.

Nephelle clung to the little sapling as Avora wrapped her arms around her. "You don't need to be the biggest or the strongest," Avora agreed, as if she could tell what Nephelle had been thinking. Maybe she could. "You just have to be patient. You just have to be _you_."

"Thank you," Nephelle whispered as she and Avora held each other tightly. That wasn't completely true, she knew. If all she needed to win the Games was to be herself, how could anyone ever lose? But it sounded a lot better than the alternative – that she would have to be someone else. Someone stronger. Someone harsher.

The Games changed everyone, of course – that much was obvious from their district's two Victors. Only two of District Seven's tributes had ever made it home, and even they had come home changed. She remembered watching in surprise the first time she'd seen snippets of Hazel's Games. She'd been so young – one of the youngest Victors ever. Certainly not one of the _strongest._

And Casper … he'd seemed so helpless during the reaping. He'd broken down in tears, begging the escort to choose someone else. But he'd gone on to win the Games, as surely as any of the other forty-eight Victors. He was still alive, while twenty-three other tributes were dead. He hadn't been the strongest. But he'd been willing to adapt – and, at the same time, he hadn't lost himself. He'd been able to bend without breaking.

Maybe she could do the same.

* * *

" _If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favours nor your hate."_


	12. District Eight: Fools

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thank you to _li'l fat necrosis_ and _TitanMaddix_ for Klaudia and Mariska, respectively.

* * *

 **District Eight  
** **Fools**

* * *

 **Lander Katzung, 60  
** **Victor of the 6th Hunger Games**

They couldn't afford to let their guard down.

Lander glanced at the clock on the wall as he and Carolina waited. Kit still hadn't come down from his room. The boy still had a tendency to lose track of the time, which wasn't usually a problem. They weren't ordinarily in much of a hurry to get anywhere. Where _was_ there in District Eight to be excited about going, after all?

Certainly not the reaping. But they couldn't afford to be late. They couldn't afford to even _appear_ to step out of line. Not when they were so close. So close to things returning to normal.

Normal. That was a terrible way to think about it. But these last eight years of sending more than two tributes – six during the 42nd Games, and four every year since – had really taken its toll on their district. The idea of returning to only sending two tributes was almost a welcome one. Almost. There was still nothing good about kids being sent to their deaths, but sending two was at least a bit … less bad. Which wasn't quite the same thing as "good," but it was really about as much as they could hope for.

"Maybe I should go check on him," Lander offered. But, even as the words left his mouth, Kit emerged, straightening his tie as he made his way towards the door, where Lander and Carolina were waiting for him. "About time," Lander muttered.

Kit glanced over at the clock. "I'm not late."

"Yet," Lander finished.

Carolina elbowed him. "Lander."

"Care."

"It's reaping day. Go easy on him."

"I'll go easy on him once we're on the train. Right now, we just need to not mess this up."

Kit shook his head. "I'm not planning anything stupid, if that's what you're worried about."

Lander rolled his eyes. "It's not the stupid stuff people _plan_ that I worry about. It's the stupid shit they _don't_ plan to do that causes trouble."

Kit turned to Carolina, who shrugged unhelpfully. "He's not wrong."

Of course he wasn't. Kit sighed, but didn't object as the three of them headed for the square. Lander clapped a hand on his shoulder as they walked. "I didn't mean it like that, kid. We're all wound a bit tightly right now. Let's just get through the reaping."

Kit nodded. "Right." _They_ weren't the ones who had to worry about the reaping, after all. He and Carolina didn't have any children. Well, unless Kit counted, but they'd only taken him in after his own Games. Everyone else they knew was too old to worry about the Games. Lander shook his head, almost chuckling a little.

When had they gotten so old?

"What's so funny?" Carolina asked.

Lander smiled a little. "Nothing. It's just … can you believe it's been forty years?"

"Since my Games?"

Lander nodded. "You were so young."

"I was eighteen."

Lander shrugged. "You acted younger."

"And you were a grouch."

Kit smirked. " _Were_?"

Lander gave him a little punch. "Watch it, kid."

Carolina smiled. "Some things don't change."

Lander slid a hand into hers. "And some things do."

Carolina squeezed his hand. "For the better, I hope."

"For better or worse," Lander reminded her. "You promised."

"So did you."

The two were still smiling as they neared the square. Sure enough, they weren't late at all; the crowd was just as reluctant to arrive as they had been. Teenagers were still trickling into their sections as the three of them took their places onstage. Their escort, Samarin Lanair, smiled warmly as he joined them. Maybe it was just Lander's eyes playing tricks, but Samarin was beginning to look a bit older, too. Most Capitolites did their best to cover up any signs of aging, but he was sure he could see some wrinkles in the older man's blood-red skin. He'd served as an escort for District Eight since the First Games.

The First Games. Everything had changed so much since then. Careers. More tributes. And now a second Quarter Quell. Strange, really, that _this_ was the most normal things had felt in a long time.

"Hello there, District Eight!" Samarin called. "It's good to be back!" For a moment, it almost sounded like he meant it. Like someone might actually be _glad_ to arrive in District Eight. He was putting on a show, of course, but he was doing a damn good job of it. "As you all know by now, you'll only be sending _two_ tributes to this very special Quell, thanks to your district's three Victors."

Lander smirked. It was the only time the district would be grateful they only had a few Victors. But whatever the reason, the crowd seemed a little more relaxed than normal. Lander leaned back a little in his chair. _Just get through the reaping without anyone doing anything stupid._

Samarin made his way to the single reaping bowl, reached in, and pulled out a slip of paper. "Your first lucky tribute is … Klaudia Almasy!"

Lander almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw it was the eighteen-year-old section that was parting. Older tributes didn't always mean better chances – Kit had been thirteen, after all – but it was always a bit of a relief to see someone capable on the stage. His sigh caught in his throat, however, when he saw the girl. She wore a plain white blouse, pink skirt, and white stockings. She was tall but very thin, with pale skin, blonde hair, freckles, and blue eyes that were darting back and forth, confused. She swayed a little. Then a little more. Lander fought back a groan. Fainting at the reaping was never a good sign.

Then he saw the man. An older, grey-haired man, pushing his way through the crowd. Too old to be her father. Maybe her grandfather. He reached the girl just as she collapsed, catching her as she sank to the ground and helping pull her back up. She was nearly standing on her own by the time the Peacekeepers reached them.

"Shit," Carolina muttered as she sprang up, racing into the crowd. Lander followed, but he already knew they were too late. The old man turned and saw the Peacekeepers heading for the girl, and immediately began shouting. The Peacekeeper made a move to grab the girl. The old man pushed back – hard. Harder than Lander would have guessed possible for a man his age. The Peacekeeper reached for his gun.

Lander saw it, but Carolina was faster. She was closer. She'd rushed into the crowd sooner, figured out quicker that the old man would fight to save the girl. She collided with both the Peacekeeper and the old man, and a shot rang out. As the three of them tumbled, someone must have struck the girl, because she fell to the ground.

By then, more Peacekeepers were moving in. Lander pushed forward through the crowd, pulling Carolina off the Peacekeeper and the old man, who were still struggling for the gun. It didn't look like she had been hit. It didn't look like _anyone_ had been hit. Maybe the Peacekeeper had fired into the air. Maybe he'd missed. But they couldn't count on getting that lucky again.

Together, he and Carolina pulled the old man away, but both he and the Peacekeeper gripped the weapon tightly, pulling it back and forth, pointing it in every direction. It was only a matter of time before—

Then the gun went off. Lander staggered backwards as a sudden pain shot through his shoulder. Both the old man and the Peacekeeper dropped the gun. Carolina held the old man back as two of the Peacekeepers dragged the girl to the stage. Whether she'd hit her head hard when she'd fallen or whether she'd simply fainted, Lander wasn't sure. That wasn't his biggest problem right now.

Once the girl was safely onstage and the old man ushered back into the crowd, Carolina rushed to his side, wrapping her jacket around his shoulder. "It's fine," Lander muttered. "Grazed me."

"Liar."

"Guilty." He gripped her hand as she helped him to the stage. The wound hurt like hell, but he would be fine. "Samarin!" he called. "Just draw another name and get it over with!"

Samarin quickly obliged, reaching into the bowl even as Lander and Carolina were still making their way through the crowd. "Mariska Vasile!"

Just as he and Carolina passed the sixteen-year-old section, it parted around a girl in a thick black jacket, dirty grey blouse, and a patchwork skirt and stockings. She was tall and spindly, her skin sickly pale, her dark brown eyes sullen and tired. Her long brown hair fell in a mess of curls to her shoulders, hiding her face a little as she shook her head, a hint of a wry laugh barely escaping her lips. "Figures," she muttered as she stepped out of the crowd, glancing over at Lander and Carolina as the three of them headed for the stage.

Lander met her gaze. _Don't do anything stupid._ And, sure enough, she didn't. No one rushed forward to save her, and that was just as well. It wasn't as if the old man had actually _helped_ the other girl. If anything, he'd made things harder for her.

"I think we can forego shaking hands this time around," Samarin noted as the three of them joined him onstage, the other girl still slumped at his feet.

Lander nodded gratefully, and Samarin dismissed the crowd. Lander sank into his chair as the cameras finally clicked off. " _This_ is what I meant when I said I was worried about what people _don't_ plan to do."

Carolina shrugged, wrapping Kit's tie around the wound. "Like you racing into a crowd after me?"

Lander grimaced. "Or you racing into a crowd in the first place."

"You think it would've been better if I hadn't?"

"I think _I_ would be better off if you hadn't."

"You didn't have to follow me."

Lander shook his head. "You know I did." He gripped Carolina's hand tightly as she finished bandaging the wound. "Kit? If you ever find someone you're willing to do something this stupid for, you don't let them go, you hear?"

"Sometimes you don't have a choice," another voice observed.

Lander turned to see their second tribute. "Thought you were supposed to be off saying goodbyes," he muttered.

"Thought you were supposed to give useful advice," the girl spat back. "Is that all you've got? Go say goodbye to your loved ones?"

Lander smirked at Carolina. "That one's mine."

The girl frowned. "Great."

Lander shook his head. "You can thank me later. For now, go thank your family."

"For what?"

"For not doing anything stupid." He turned to Carolina as the Peacekeepers took their tributes away. "How's it look?"

Carolina nodded. "This'll hold til we can get you looked at on the train. You got lucky."

Lander shrugged, immediately regretting the motion. "That Peacekeeper got lucky. Imagine what you might've done if he'd _really_ hurt me."

Carolina smiled uneasily. The truth was, neither of them wanted to think about that. If the Peacekeeper had actually hurt him – even _killed_ him – what would Carolina have done? He didn't want to think that she would've gotten herself killed, too, but she _was_ the one who had raced into the crowd first. And if _they_ had both died, what would have happened to Kit?

Lander shook the thought from his head. He was fine. Carolina was fine. Kit would be fine. Right now, they had two tributes to worry about – tributes who needed their attention more than he did. Lander stood up, still a bit shaky. "Let's get to that train."

"I'll take the other girl," Carolina offered as they left.

"I'm still coming," Kit insisted.

Lander nodded. "Of course." They'd spent enough years going to the Capitol together for the Games, he couldn't imagine not bringing Kit along. Maybe it wasn't exactly the best place to be, but it was still better than leaving him here alone. But eventually…

Eventually, he would have to take over mentoring. But, hopefully, he would have some more company by then. Another Victor or two to help him carry the burden. Maybe even this year, if they got lucky.

And if no one did anything stupid.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16**

At least they hadn't done anything stupid.

Mariska shook her head as her parents left almost as quickly as they'd come. Of _course_ they hadn't done anything stupid. Of course they hadn't tried to save her from the reaping. And not just because they recognized there was nothing they could do. Her father wouldn't have lifted a finger to save her even if he could, and her mother … well, she was just trying her best to avoid her father. Just like Mariska always did.

At least she would never have to see him again – whichever way this went. If she died in the Games, that would be the end of it. And if she lived, she could be rid of him for good.

Mariska took a deep breath as the door closed behind her parents. She was getting ahead of herself. She knew better than to think that winning the Games would be easy. Especially after last year…

Mariska looked up, surprised, as the door opened again – this time revealing Willa's parents. Mariska tensed. She had barely seen the pair of them since Willa had died. Nineteen days into last year's Games – the longest Hunger Games yet – Willa had finally met her match. Mariska had been silently hoping, longing for her to be the one to come home. But she had known, deep down, from the moment Willa had been reaped. Willa had never had what it took to make it out of the Games.

Willa's mother stepped forward first. "We came to … to apologize."

Apologize? "For what?"

"For the way we acted … the way we treated you … after Willa … after last year's Games."

Mariska shook her head. They certainly hadn't treated her any worse than her own family had been for years. Sure, they'd shut her out. Stopped speaking to her. Treated her as their last painful reminder of their daughter. But she was used to that. Why were they apologizing now?

Willa's father held out something. A bracelet made of buttons. Mariksa swallowed hard, fighting back her tears. She recognized that bracelet. It had been one of Willa's favorites. "We want you to have it," Willa's mother said softly. "For her."

Mariska nodded, took the bracelet, and slipped it on. "I'm sorry, too."

Willa's mother shook her head. "For what?"

"I knew Willa wasn't … couldn't … I could have taken her place. And now I'm here, anyway."

"There's no way you could have known."

But she had. She had known, from the moment they'd called Willa's name. She was too good. Too sweet. She had been the best thing in Mariska's life, and she'd let the Games take her.

Mariska looked away as Willa's parents left. _If you ever find someone you're willing to do something this stupid for, you don't let them go, you hear?_ That was what Lander had said. Mariska held her tears back until the door was shut. No one else was coming. The only other person who would have come – the only other person who had ever loved her – was already gone. She had loved Willa more than anything … but she hadn't been stupid enough to save her from the Games.

A part of her wished she had been.

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18**

She wished Austen hadn't been so brave.

Klaudia let out a gasp as she came to, lying on the floor of the Justice Building. Where was Austen? Where were Eniko and Daria? Were they all right?

Were they _alive_?

Everything was still fuzzy; she must've hit her head harder than she'd thought. She only remembered bits and pieces. Austen yelling at the Peacekeepers. Someone pushing her to the ground. She remembered a gunshot. No, _two_ gunshots. Everything after that was a blur. But this was definitely the Justice Building. Not that she'd ever seen the inside of it, but it certainly didn't look like a train. And there wasn't really any other option.

Slowly, Klaudia sat up a little. "I was hoping you'd wake up before they called us to the train," said a voice. A voice she didn't know. Klaudia glanced around frantically. A woman was standing by the door – a woman with a red mechanical eye where her left one should have been, staring down at her. Carolina nodded a little. "That'll make this easier."

"Make what easier? Where's Austen?"

"Older man? Bit of a temper?"

A temper? No. No, that wasn't Austen at all. He'd never had a temper. She'd never even heard him _shout_ before today. "He was just trying to protect me."

Carolina's expression softened a little. "I know. And now you need to protect him. He's waiting outside with a woman and a little girl."

"Eniko. She's my sister." Adopted sister, technically, but Austen had never treated her as anything but family. "Daria's my niece. Are they all right?"

Carolina nodded. "They're fine. They're all fine."

"There was a gunshot."

"Everyone's all right. Lander might be a bit grumpy on the ride to the Capitol, but never mind that. You have bigger things to worry about. What Austen did at the reaping was very brave … but we can't have any more of that."

"Bravery?"

"Rebellion."

"He's not a rebel."

"Doesn't matter. We can't have anyone _acting_ like one. When he comes in here to say goodbye, you tell him to lie low for the rest of the Games. Not to cause a stir, no matter what happens."

 _No matter what happens._ "You mean even if I die."

"Yes. Right now, the best thing he can do to help you is nothing. If he causes a fuss here, the Gamemakers can make the arena a living hell for you – for however long you last. The only thing he can do to protect you now is stay out of the way. Will you tell him that?"

Klaudia swallowed hard. She didn't want to die. But she certainly didn't want Austen to get in trouble because of her. "Okay," she agreed quietly. "I'll tell him."

Carolina nodded. "Good. I'll see you on the train." She opened the door to leave, but then turned back. "Klaudia?"

"Yes?"

"It seems like you have something good to come back to. Let's try to keep it that way."

Klaudia nodded. She _did_ have something good. Certainly better than what she'd had before. Before Austen and Eniko and Daria. But in order to come back to them, she would have to fight. She would have to _kill_. Could she really do that? Could she really kill another person?

Would she really be strong enough?

* * *

" _All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death."_


	13. District Nine: Forever

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Hunger Games._

 **Note:** Yep, it's that part of December where I actually have time to sit down and edit all the stuff I wrote during NaNoWriMo. The rest of the reapings should go fairly quickly.

Thank you to _jakey121_ , _goldie031_ , and _DaughterOfTigris_ for Aven, Barlen, and Triticum, respectively.

* * *

 **District Nine  
** **Forever**

* * *

 **Crispin Zephyr, 46  
** **Victor of the 19th Hunger Games**

Why was it always District Eight?

Crispin shook his head as he turned the screen off. He'd turned the reapings on just to make sure that nothing had gone wrong, and, sure enough, something had. And of _course_ it was District Eight. Lander would probably be okay, but he and Carolina were lucky. Lucky the bullet hadn't gone farther astray. Lucky the Peacekeepers hadn't actually been aiming for one of them. Lucky they hadn't decided to carry the conflict farther and had instead let the reaping proceed as normal.

Because it could have been a lot worse. The Peacekeepers had already proven that simply being a Victor wouldn't protect anyone. It hadn't stopped Misha from getting himself killed. It hadn't stopped Nicodemus from being beaten within an inch of his life and left to die. And if they'd really wanted to kill Carolina or Lander, it wouldn't have stopped them.

At least Kit had had the sense to stay out of it. He'd learned his lesson the hard way. It had been his Games, after all, that had sparked the rebellion the following year. He had spent his Victory tour rambling about how he and his two allies could have simply refused to fight, how they could all have survived, if only they'd insisted on not killing each other. The rebels had listened, and five volunteers the next year had banded together with the tributes they recruited and attempted to do exactly that – refuse to fight once they'd killed off the other tributes.

It hadn't exactly gone their way. Executions had followed. Torture. Extra tributes sent to the Games from the districts that had participated in the rebellion – which was all of them except One, Two, Five, and Twelve. But President Grisom had promised that things would return to normal after the Quell, as long as there were no further incidents.

Crispin just hoped he wouldn't count this as an 'incident.'

Probably not. President Snow probably would have. But President Grisom had a bit more sense. And Eldred…

 _Vice President Brand_ , Crispin reminded himself. He still wasn't used to that. Try as he might, he couldn't imagine Eldred ordering an execution, or announcing that more tributes would be sent into the Games as punishment. And yet that was exactly what he'd done. Not single-handedly, certainly, but he had been the one to read the Quarter Quell card, to inform all of Panem that some districts would be sending extra tributes to the Quell.

But not District Nine. They were sending three tributes, exactly as they had since the 43rd Games. And next year, they would go back to sending two, as long as no one did anything stupid this year. Maybe sending two children to die wasn't something to celebrate, but it was certainly better than sending three or four.

Crispin managed a smile as his oldest daughter, Sierra, emerged from her room in a long, golden-brown dress. She was fifteen now – the same age he'd been when he'd been reaped. The same age Basil had been two years ago, when he'd won. If she was picked…

 _Stop it._ He'd done everything he possibly could to make sure that she wouldn't be. His Victor's earnings ensured that none of his children would ever have to take tesserae, and he'd done his best to stay in line. To avoid giving the Capitol any reason to single out him or his children. He'd never stepped out of line, and neither had they. Maybe that meant they were cooperating with the Capitol, but if that was the price of his children's safety, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Sierra gave him a shaky smile as the five of them left for the reaping. She was the only one old enough for the reaping; her younger sisters Robyn and Cynthia were eleven and eight years old. Next year would be Robyn's first year. It would be a long time – far too long – before they were all safe.

But this year, he only had to worry about Sierra, and that was quite enough for him.

The other Victors were already onstage when he arrived – even Tobiah, who usually wandered in late. Even he knew better than to try anything unusual this year. Not that there would be ramifications for anyone he cared about; Tobiah didn't have any family he was still close to. All of Eloise's siblings were too old for the reaping, and her nephew was too young. And Basil's older brothers had safely turned nineteen a few months ago.

Basil flashed Crispin a smile as he joined the others onstage. "How's Sierra holding up?"

"She's fine," Crispin lied. It wasn't true, of course. None of them would be fine – not until after the reaping. He'd felt the same dread in the pit of his stomach for the last three years. The same feeling he was certain every parent had during the reaping. A deep, wrenching helplessness. If Sierra's name _was_ called, there was nothing he could do. Anything he might try could jeopardize her chances. Just like the old man in District Eight had probably done.

Crispin drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Victors' children had been chosen in the past. Well, _one_ of them had been chosen – Vernon's son Luke. The other two – Harakuise's daughter Camden and Jade and Stellar's son Jasper – had volunteered. The Capitol had been quite partial to them, but how much of that had been because they were Victors' children and how much had been because they were _Careers_ ' children, Crispin wasn't sure.

He just knew he didn't want to find out.

But he didn't have any say in the matter. It was all in the hands of District Nine's escort, Gladys Howell, who was grinning and waving at the crowd as she took the stage. No one waved back. No one cheered. Maybe District Nine wasn't as outwardly hostile towards the Capitol as District Eight was, but there certainly weren't any warm feelings towards their escort – or anyone from the Capitol.

Gladys, however, wasn't at all deterred by their lack of enthusiasm. She simply strolled over to the microphone and grabbed it from the stand. "Thank you for the warm welcome, District Nine!" she called, completely oblivious to the fact that they had been anything _but_ warm and welcoming. "Are you ready to see who this year's lucky tributes are?"

No. He wasn't ready. None of them were ready. But that wouldn't stop what was about to happen. Gladys eagerly plunged her hand into the reaping bowl and drew out a slip of paper. "And your first tribute, District Nine, is … Triticum Bulgur!"

Crispin's stomach turned as he saw the fourteen-year-old section part around a boy in a black tuxedo and red bow tie. The younger tributes were always the hardest to watch, and the boy barely looked fourteen. He was about average height for his age, with dark skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes. He was lean and fit but still so … so _young_. He looked around, surprised, as the crowd turned towards him.

But then he took a step forward. Then another. On his own, without the Peacekeepers having to come and get him. That was something. As he drew nearer to the stage, he looked up at Crispin and the other Victors. His eyes were wide, but he managed a wave as he turned towards the crows. "Ti. Call me Ti."

Gladys nodded. "All right, then, Ti. Let's see who else will be joining you this year." She reached into the bowl again. "Our next tribute is … Aven Faraday!"

This time it was the sixteen-year-old section that parted, revealing a girl in a simple burnt orange dress, white stockings, and black shoes. She was a little taller than the boy but quite thin, with pale skin, messy dark brown hair, and light blue eyes. A nervous laugh escaped her lips as a hint of a smile appeared. She swayed a little but finally stepped forward, slowly making her way towards the stage.

One step. Then another. Her smile wavered a little but never fully melted, but her eyes were wide and terrified. As she took the stage slowly, carefully, Crispin could see the tears welling in her eyes. But, for the moment, none of them spilled over. Good. That was something. Maybe not much, but something.

Crispin glanced over at Gladys as she drew one last slip of paper. One last name. One more name, and Sierra would be safe for another year. One more name…

"Barlen Rimmonn!"

Crispin tried to hide a sigh of relief as the thirteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a simple white shirt and khaki slacks. He was small and thin, with medium brown skin, bushy dark brown hair, and big, warm brown eyes. But he didn't move. He simply stood there, glancing this way and that, until one of the other boys near him put a hand on his shoulder and motioned towards the stage.

The boy shrugged and began walking towards the stage, but, halfway there, he turned – not running, just wandering off in the wrong direction. Then back towards the spot where he'd started. He turned this way and that, still looking around, as if confused about why everyone was staring at him.

One of the Peacekeepers started moving towards him, but Basil was faster. He leapt down from the stage and motioned towards the boy. "This way, Barlen," he called, as if he were calling a dog.

A smile broke out on the boy's face. "How'd you know my name?"

"Tell you later – on the train," Basil promised, gently herding the boy up the stairs. "Right now, you just have to shake hands with these other two kids. Okay?"

The boy nodded readily and held out his hand to Ti, who was nearest. After a moment's hesitation, Ti shook it. Barlen turned to Aven with a smile, and she shook his hand, still struggling to hold back her tears. She and Ti quickly shook hands, and the Peacekeepers led the three of them away.

"What's with that last kid?" Tobiah mumbled as the four Victors headed for the train.

"Not sure," Basil admitted. "But I'll take him."

Crispin raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

Basil nodded. "Don't get your hopes up, and you won't be disappointed. I reckon I'll be done with mentoring sooner than either of you this year, and then I don't have to care."

Crispin opened his mouth to object, but what was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to pretend that a boy who hadn't even been able to figure out how to get to the stage on his own really had a chance in the Games? Maybe Basil was a bit insensitive, but he wasn't wrong.

"I'll take the other boy," Eloise offered. "As long as that's all right with you, Crispin."

Crispin nodded. Asking him had been a formality only. She knew he did better with the older tributes, that he got too attached to the younger ones. The ones who reminded him of his children…

But Sierra was older now. Almost as old as the girl he would be working with. Crispin took a deep breath. Just one more year. After this year, they would go back to sending two tributes. Which meant they would only have to send two mentors. Maybe then, after more than thirty years of mentoring, they would finally let him stop. Eventually, they would _have_ to let him stop.

He couldn't keep doing this forever.

* * *

 **Aven Faraday, 16**

She wouldn't be able to hold her tears back forever.

Aven swallowed hard as the Peacekeepers came to take her parents away, closing the door behind them. Just a little longer. Just a little longer, and she would be able to cry. But not yet. Evelyn was still coming; she was sure of it. And she wasn't about to let her best friend see her break down completely. Not when it might be the last time they saw each other.

 _Stop thinking like that._ Aven clenched her fists tightly. She _wanted_ to come back, of course. She didn't _want_ to die. But simply _wanting_ to live, _wanting_ to get through the Games … that wasn't enough. Every tribute in the arena wanted to live – or certainly most of them did. But only one of them would be coming home. One out of thirty-five. Those were her chances. Not exactly great odds.

So she had to hold it together – just a little longer. Just in case this was the last time she would be able to talk to her friend. Just in case the worst happened. Just in case the _likely_ happened. In case she _didn't_ manage to beat the odds.

 _Stop it._ The door creaked open, and Evelyn stepped in, tears streaming down her face. Aven bit her lip, trying not to cry, but she could already feel a few tears slipping out. "Evelyn, I…"

Evelyn threw her arms around Aven. "Just try to come home. Please. I don't know what I'll do if—"

"You'll be fine," Aven insisted. But was that true? What would either of them really do without the other? They'd grown up together – each like the sister the other had never had. If their positions were reversed, and Evelyn was the one headed for the Games, what would she be saying? Would she really believe that everything would be fine if…

Aven could feel Evelyn's tears seeping through her dress. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing else to say. She would do her best to come home, and Evelyn … she would do her best to keep hoping. Keep believing that her friend would come home. Aven squeezed Evelyn tightly until the Peacekeepers knocked on the door. "Please come back," Evelyn whispered before the Peacekeepers came to drag her away. "Please."

"I'll try," Aven called as the door closed behind her. But the words sounded so hollow. All across Panem, she knew, other tributes were saying the same thing to their loved ones. Promising that they would try their best to come home. Their parents and siblings and friends were all saying the same things Evelyn had – begging them to come home, insisting that even the most hopeless of them had a chance.

But she wasn't the most hopeless. She was sixteen; that made her one of the older ones this year. A year without Careers. And she was already the oldest tribute in District Nine. Her district partners were thirteen and fourteen. As far as age was concerned, she was their district's best chance.

But age wasn't everything. Last year's Victor had been twelve. The year before that, Basil had won at the age of fifteen. Duke had been sixteen. Violet had been eighteen. All outer-district tributes, none of them Careers. None of them – except maybe Duke – tributes that the others had considered a threat at the start of the Games.

Which was good news for her, because the impression that she'd made at the reaping … well, she doubted she'd made one at all. Certainly not a good one. She'd managed not to cry, but, other than that, she hadn't done anything to mark herself as either a threat or a weakling. At least she'd been able to get to the stage on her own. All in all, the Capitol probably considered her rather forgettable right now.

But she wouldn't be able to avoid their attention forever.

* * *

 **Ti Bulgur, 14**

He just wished he could stay here forever.

Ti took a deep breath as the door creaked open again. His parents had already come and gone, and this time, it was his friends Hernando and Iliana at the door. The door he wished wouldn't have to open again to let him out to go to the train. Not that he wanted to spend the rest of his life in this room, but it was better than the alternative. Better than the possibility that he might die in the Games.

But, for a moment as his friends stepped into the room, all of that melted away. Hernando immediately clapped him on the back. "You'll be back in no time. You can do this, Titi."

Ti couldn't help a smile. "Thanks, Nanny. I just wish I didn't have to." It was probably the best thing to say. Not that he didn't think he _could_ do this. That he didn't _want_ to. He didn't want to fight and kill other tributes – other _kids_. But that didn't mean he couldn't, if it came down to it. When push came to shove, the truth was that most of the tributes could kill – or would at least _try_ , when their lives were on the line. No matter how pleasant or kind anyone was in real life, the Games brought out the killer in everyone.

And if he wanted to survive, he would have to become exactly that – a killer. Ti nodded as Iliana gave him a pat on the back, too. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do this."

"Of course you can," Iliana agreed. "I'm just surprised you got picked, because—" She cut herself off, not wanting to be rude. But she was right. He'd been just as surprised as anyone else. His family was quite well-off as far as District Nine was concerned. He'd never had to take tesserae in his life, unlike both of his friends. His name had only been in the bowl the required three times. He'd been more worried about his friends than he'd been about himself.

But it hadn't made a bit of difference. His parents' wealth. His friends' tesserae. None of it had stopped him from being the first one called at the reaping. He was going into the Games, and his friends weren't.

Well, that was something to be grateful for, at least. None of his friends had been chosen alongside him. He was going into the Games, yes, but at least he was going into the Games with strangers. Strangers he might have to kill, in order to come home.

But would he really be able to do that? Ti tried his best to smile confidently as the Peacekeepers came to take his friends away. He didn't want them to see. Didn't want them to know just how nervous he was. Just how uncertain he was that he would actually be able to kill either of his district partners. That he would actually be able to kill _anyone_. The girl had almost been crying. The other boy hadn't even seemed to realize what was going on. If the arena was full of people like them…

Then that would make it easier. _Should_ make it easier. Ti paced back and forth, wringing his hands and tugging at the sleeves of his tuxedo. Could he really kill someone who was crying, someone who was begging for their life? If he tried hard enough, he could picture himself killing someone in self-defense. Someone who had attacked him first. Someone who was trying their best to kill _him._ But attacking someone else … that was different.

Ti shook his head. It was something he didn't have to worry about – not yet, at least. Right now, he just had to make it to the train without breaking down completely. Once he was on the train, once he found out who his mentor was, once he knew a little bit more about the other tributes … _then_ he could worry about what came next.

But he wouldn't be able to put it off forever.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13**

He would remember this moment forever.

Barlen held his parents and sister Chita tightly as someone knocked on the door. "Time's up!" called a voice. One of the Peacekeepers who had brought him to the Justice Building. Her remembered that. He remembered his family crying. He just wished he could remember _why_.

Then the Peacekeeper was in the room. Dragging his family away. Barlen held on to his little sister as tightly as he could, but it wasn't any good. The Peacekeepers were too strong, and one of them shoved him to the floor. But they didn't do anything worse – not like they usually did. Usually, when he did something wrong at work, it meant a whip across his back. But not this time. Maybe they were feeling generous. Maybe they simply didn't think it was worth the effort now that he was leaving.

Leaving. That was right. He was leaving. Someone had said something about a train. He wasn't sure _who_ , but it had sounded important. Then he'd shaken hands with two other kids. A boy and a girl. At least, he was pretty sure it had been a boy and a girl. If he could just remember their names…

Suddenly, the door swung open, and there was a boy. A boy at least a few years older than him. He looked familiar from somewhere. "Hi," Barlen offered. "I'm Barlen."

"I know."

"And you're…"

"Basil. Basil Thatch. I'm your mentor."

Mentor. No. No, that wasn't right. Tributes got mentors. Tributes in the Hunger Games. But he'd remember being chosen for something like that. Wouldn't he?

"You don't remember, do you," Basil noted.

Barlen shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't always remember when—"

"Yeah, I got that impression," Basil interrupted. "Why don't you tell me what you _do_ remember."

"If you're my mentor, I'm … I'm a tribute?"

"Yes."

"In the Hunger Games?"

"Good so far."

Barlen could feel his face growing warm. "That's not good! That's terrible."

Basil shook his head. "I meant that it's good that you _remember_ that. Now you'll have to _keep_ remembering it."

"Of course. I wouldn't forget something as important as _that_."

"Sure."

"Are we going to the train now?"

"Oh, good. You remember the train."

Barlen shrugged. "Sure. I've always wanted to ride a train again."

"Again?"

"Yeah. There was this old woman once, and we went on a train ride together – out past the edge of the district. There were orange flowers, and a strange-looking bird with eyes on its tail. You should've been there."

"Eyes on its tail," Basil repeated. "A bird."

"Yeah."

"What color was the bird?"

Barlen shook his head, confused. "What bird?"

"The bird with eyes on its tail."

 _Eyes on its tail_? What kind of a bird would have eyes on its tail? "What?"

The strange boy shook his head. "Never mind. Let's get to the train."

Barlen's face lit up. A train?

He'd wanted to ride on a train for as long as he could remember.

* * *

" _Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, which shall possess them with the heaviest sound that ever yet they heard."_


	14. District Ten: Home

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thank you to _Coven of Amyranth_ and _PeonyPierce_ for Connor and Skyton, respectively.

* * *

 **District Ten  
** **Home**

* * *

 **Presley Winters, 29  
** **Victor of the 36th Hunger Games**

She wouldn't be staying home.

Presley shook her head as she, Tess, and Glenn headed for the square. She didn't have much of a right to complain about the way things had turned out. Tess had won the flip fair and square, which meant Presley would be going with Glenn to the Capitol. If they were being completely fair, of course, it should have been the two of them going – her and Tess. But Glenn had insisted on mentoring again this year, despite his seniority and despite the fact that they only had to send two mentors. Because they were only sending two tributes.

 _Only_ two. It still felt wrong, thinking about it like that. As if the Quell was some sort of relief for the districts that had been sending more tributes since the 42nd Games. The year that Indira had come so close to winning…

So close. She had come so close, but her ally Imalia had outlasted her in the finale. She'd had more strength, more talent, more _training_. Indira hadn't exactly been lacking in the first two, but, in the end, Imalia's training had meant the difference between victory and defeat. Imalia had said herself on occasion that, giving the same advantage of training, Indira would have won the fight.

She was probably trying to be kind. But words like that only added to the feeling of inevitability that ran through the Games. Yes, there were times when outer-district tributes managed to come out on top. She was proof of that herself. But there was no denying that the tributes from Career districts had a distinct advantage. Outer-district tributes were fighting an uphill battle from the start.

To most of them, of course, that wasn't anything new. The outer districts were so accustomed to being at a disadvantage – both in the Games and out of them – that they didn't even think about it anymore. Not that she blamed her district for that. The events nine years ago had reminded the districts of what happened to those who dared to challenge that balance. Those who wanted something better. The districts had been forced back into place, and it would be a while before anyone was willing to step out of line again.

A while. But not forever. Because as inevitable as the Capitol's control seemed, it was only a matter of time before someone came along to challenge it. Then the same thing would happen again. And again. It was a cycle – and an unavoidable one, as far as she could tell. There would always be people brave enough to step forward and try to change things. They would always be subdued. That was just the way things were.

Presley took a deep breath as they neared the square. The crowd was always a bit of a surprise. District Ten's population was spread more thinly than some districts, due to the space required for cows and sheep and other animals to graze. So when people actually gathered in the center of the district – which was rare – the sheer number of people was a bit jarring. She wasn't used to this.

And she didn't want to be.

Presley could feel Glenn's hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Presley nodded a little. "Yeah. It's just … quite a crowd this year."

Glenn couldn't help a smile. "You say that every year."

"And it's still true."

"I suppose you'd rather be back with your sheep."

Presley gave him a punch on the shoulder. But it was true. She'd always considered animals better company than people. Her Games had only cemented that belief, as even the Capitol's genetically engineered lion mutts had proved better allies for her than any human companions. Presley shook her head. "Let's just get this over with."

It was a sentiment that was clearly shared by a majority of the district. She, Glenn, and Tess had arrived early, as usual, but the crowd was already gathered and in place by the time they arrived. There were still a few stragglers trickling in, but, for the most part, everyone was ready. Ready for this to be over with.

Their new escort, Gerard Swanson, was apparently in agreement, as well. He took the stage with little flourish, barely glancing at the mayor and the three Victors before heading for the microphone. "Quarter Quell!" he announced. "So excited. Thrilled to be here. Et cetera. Et cetera. You know how this goes. Let's get on with it."

Presley held back a chuckle. Laughing at the reaping wouldn't do, but it was hard to disagree with his sentiments. This was their fiftieth year of reapings. They all knew what was coming. There were no surprises – not in District Ten. Certainly not in a year where there could be no volunteers. Not that volunteers were common even when they were allowed. They could all do the math. In forty-nine years, District Ten had sent over a hundred tributes into the Games. Only three had returned. That wasn't a gamble that anyone in their right mind would want to take.

It certainly wasn't a risk she would have chosen. Or Glenn. Or even Tess, who, of the three, had probably seemed most prepared at the reaping. How many volunteers had there been in District Ten's history? She couldn't remember any.

Maybe she could ask Glenn later. He would remember. He remembered every tribute he'd ever mentored, and some who hadn't even been his. He'd been mentoring without fail every year since his own Games.

She couldn't imagine doing that.

And she wouldn't have to. She'd been mentoring since her victory during the 36th Games, but that would change after this year. With only two tributes from now on – assuming nothing went wrong during the Games themselves – she and Tess could alternate years while Glenn kept mentoring. Which meant that she wouldn't have to mentor next year.

 _Just get through this year first._

Presley braced herself as Gerard drew a name out of the single reaping bowl in the center of the stage. He quickly unfolded the slip of paper. "Skyton Tate!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a pair of overalls and mud-caked boots. He was about average height, but while his arms were muscular, the rest of him was rather scrawny. He was quite pale, with dark brown hair and brown eyes – eyes that were clearly trying to hold back tears as he took a few shaky steps towards the stage.

After a few steps, however, he couldn't keep the tears at bay any longer. He was sobbing silently as he walked, wiping away the tears that kept slipping down his cheeks as he took one step, and then another, towards the stage. Presley had to fight back the urge to rush over and help him. Console him. That might make _her_ feel good, but it was really the worst thing she could do for him. Needing to be comforted by a mentor during the reaping was a sign of weakness, and that was something she couldn't allow him to have.

The boy brushed away a few more tears as he took his place onstage, his gaze planted firmly on the ground, avoiding the eyes of the crowd. Most of them were more than happy to return the favor. No volunteers were allowed this year, but she doubted anyone would have stepped forward even if they could. Maybe this boy wasn't the best their district had to offer, but he was sixteen. He had some muscle. Maybe they felt sorry for him, but that wouldn't be enough to make anyone want to trade their life for his.

Besides, it wasn't as if _she_ had been the pick of the crop, either. Neither had Glenn. And both of them had come home, when so many older, stronger tributes had come home in boxes. This boy had as good a chance as anyone else. Maybe better. That was what she would keep telling herself. What she _had_ to keep telling herself.

"Connor Sawyer!"

Presley raised an eyebrow. Gerard sure hadn't wasted any time. The other boy had barely stepped on the stage, and already he'd called the second name. Good. Better to get things over with quicker. Wasn't it?

It was the fifteen-year-old section that parted this time, revealing a boy in a tattered grey shirt, well-worn jeans, and a pair of work boots. He was tall for his age – taller than the other boy – with messy brown hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin with a few freckles. He glanced around for a moment before stepping out of the crowd, making his way towards the stage more quickly than the other boy. More confidently. Maybe he knew that he didn't have to do much in order to appear more capable than the boy who was still sobbing onstage.

As he reached the stage, however, Presley could see the fear growing in the younger boy's eyes. Maybe the other boy's crying was beginning to affect him. Maybe seeing the crowd watching him suddenly made it seem more real. Whatever the reason, as he took his last step off the stairs leading up to the stage, tears began to slip from his eyes. "Shit," he muttered, wiping them away, but more took their place. He clenched his teeth, trying to hide his tears from the crowd.

"Great," Gerard muttered. "Just shake hands already." The boys quickly did as they were told, and the Peacekeepers ushered them away towards the Justice Building. "Two more down, I suppose," Gerard scoffed as soon as they were out of earshot.

Presley glared. "Don't count them out yet."

Gerard raised an eyebrow. "Which one? The one who was crying the moment his name was called, or the one who didn't have the sense to realize he was toast until he was already onstage?"

"Either of them," Glenn answered calmly. "I'm sure you would have said the same thing about me."

Gerard shrugged. "I'm sure I would have. And any year other than yours, I would have been right. I'll see you on the train."

Glenn shook his head as Gerard left. "Don't pay him any mind. He'll be gone in a year or two. He doesn't have the stomach for this sort of thing."

Presley couldn't help a smile. The thought of their new escort not being able to handle dealing with District Ten for more than a few years was somewhat satisfying. They'd been going through new escorts for quite a while, with few staying on more than a year or two. Maybe it shouldn't have come as a surprise that no one wanted to work with District Ten, but it was still annoying to have to break in a new escort so often.

"So which one would you like?" Presley asked.

Glenn thought for a moment. "I'll take Connor, if it's all right with you."

Presley nodded. "Fine with me."

"Something else on your mind?"

Presley nodded. He could always tell. "Just something I was wondering – with the quell and all. The rule about no volunteers. When's the last time we even had one?"

Glenn didn't even hesitate. "Forty years."

Forty years. No wonder she hadn't remembered any volunteers. She hadn't even been born then. "What happened?"

"Her name was Maeren. She was fourteen. Volunteered in place of her older sister. Ended up allying with the boy from Three and the girl from Eight. They were doing pretty well, until they stumbled across a nest of mutt eggs. When the mutt came back to the nest, they ran, but the other girl shoved Maeren down in its path, giving the other two time to escape. She survived the mutt's attack, but some other tributes found her. Careers, you would call them now, though they weren't exactly what we would consider _Careers_ back then. They killed her. Tied her to a tree and flayed her alive. No one in Ten has volunteered for the Games since."

Presley nodded. "Not much of a surprise, really."

"No, I suppose not."

Presley frowned, doing the math in her head. "Forty years ago?"

"Forty years exactly."

"Then the girl from Eight—"

"Carolina," Glenn nodded. "You didn't know, did you."

"No." She couldn't imagine that – leaving her ally to be attacked by mutts. No, _causing_ her ally to be attacked by mutts. Not that she'd had allies. She'd gone it alone during her Games, for exactly that reason. She hadn't wanted to get attached. Sure, she'd gotten rather attached to the two lion mutts she'd been working with, but that was different. They hadn't had to _die_ in order for her to win.

Presley shook her head. That didn't change anything. Every Victor had things that they regretted. None of them had made it out of the Games unscathed. Not even Glenn had made it out of the arena unchanged. He hadn't killed, but she knew the things he'd _seen_ still haunted him.

That was part of the reason, she suspected, why he kept volunteering to mentor. Why he continued to keep a journal of all the tributes he'd mentored. Why he remembered the stories of tributes from forty years ago – stories that no one else would want to tell. Stories that had long been forgotten by the rest of the district, blended together with the dozens of other tributes who had lost their lives in the Games.

"Wasn't there a Sawyer kid in the last Quarter Quell?" Tess asked as the three of them left the stage. "Something sweet-sounding? Lacie? Gracie?"

"Grace," Glenn answered quietly. "Her name was Grace. And she _was_ sweet, but … but strong, too. Strong enough to sacrifice herself for her allies once she realized … once she knew the Gamemakers weren't going to let her out of the arena alive. But I doubt they're related. Her family … they've been gone for a while now."

 _Gone._ Presley knew what he meant. Sometimes people disappeared. Troublemakers, usually, but sometimes not. Sometimes people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who happened to be accused of the wrong thing by the right people. There were no questions, no procedure. One day, they were just _gone._

Glenn shook his head. "Actually, one of _her_ allies ended up winning, too."

Presley shook her head. "I guess we District Ten folks know how to pick 'em." Grace. Maeren. Indira. They'd all ended up allying with the eventual Victor of their Games. There were probably others, too. Maybe she'd had the right idea when she'd decided not to find any allies. Because being a Victor's _ally_ didn't mean anything to the family of a tribute who didn't come home. And it didn't do anything to help the district.

She had come home. Her. Not one of her allies. Not her district partner. _She_ had made it home.

And she would do everything she could to help one of this year's tributes do the same.

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16**

He wouldn't be coming home.

Skyton wiped away his tears with the edge of his sleeve, but it barely did any good. His shirt was already damp with tears, and he knew they wouldn't be stopping any time soon. He'd already made a mess of the reaping, so there was no point in trying to look strong now. They all knew he was crying. And who wouldn't be? He was a tribute now. He would be in the Hunger Games soon. And then…

 _Soon._ But not yet. He still had time. Time to say goodbye, at least. The door creaked open, and his family rushed in. His parents. His older brother Clayton. His sisters Cameron, Lucy, and little Kit. Kit was crying. She was only four – old enough to know that something was wrong, but not really old enough to understand everything. She knew about the Games, of course, but their parents had never let her _watch_ them. And even if they had, the fact that they were _called_ Games sounded so benign. She wouldn't have understood that it _wasn't_ just a game. That the tributes on the screen were really dead.

But now…

Now it was real. _He_ was a tribute. Skyton scooped up Kit and held her as tightly as he could, trying to hide his tears. "It's okay," he whispered over and over again. "It'll be okay."

But it wouldn't be. This would never be okay. Maybe his _family_ would never be okay again. They didn't always get along, but, at the end of the day, they all cared for each other. They all _needed_ each other more than they would usually like to admit. Without him…

Suddenly, a little jingling sound interrupted his thoughts. Lucy was holding something out to him. Skyton swallowed back the lump in his throat when he saw what it was. A bell. But not just any bell. The bell that belonged to Fifa, his favorite cow. Clayton had always said it was stupid that he had a favorite cow, and Cameron and Lucy thought cows were "stinky." But maybe they really _did_ understand just how much the animals meant to him. Skyton managed a smile as Lucy handed him the bell. "Thank you."

"Try not to let it jingle too much," Cameron advised. "You don't want it letting the other tributes know where you are."

Skyton nodded. "All right."

"Maybe you can use it as some sort of signal," Clayton suggested. "If you have allies, I mean."

"Or maybe you could throw it at someone," Lucy offered. "It's pretty hard."

Skyton couldn't help a smile. They were all trying to help. They were already planning, coming up with different possibilities, trying to imagine any way that he might make it out of the Games. They wanted to believe that he had a chance of coming home.

Of course, he _wanted_ to believe it, too. Who wouldn't? But did he really have a chance? In almost fifty years now, District Ten had only brought home three Victors. One of those had been a fluke. Another had ended up in a coma after her Games after going into shock during her interview. And Presley had been lucky enough to befriend some of the mutts on the ark that had served as her arena. None of them had been particularly strong, or particularly skilled.

And maybe others would see that as a good sign. But this year … this year, the Gamemakers wouldn't allow a Victor who simply got _lucky._ They would want a Victor with blood on their hands. A Victor who was willing to do what had to be done, ready to cut down anyone in their path on their way to victory.

And that simply wasn't him.

* * *

 **Connor Sawyer, 15**

He would be coming home.

Connor clenched his fists as the door closed behind his family, leaving him alone in the room. His parents had been silent for most of their time together, and he couldn't really blame them for that. What was there to say? Either he would be back, or he wouldn't. If he came back, then nothing they said now really mattered. And if he didn't…

If he didn't, what were they supposed to say? That they were going to miss him? That they didn't know what they would do without him? None of them wanted to believe that there was a chance he wouldn't be coming home. They wanted to focus on the chance – whatever chance there was – that he would be the one coming back.

Connor took a deep breath. It wasn't just a chance. It was a chance he had to hold onto with all his might. A chance he had to cling to. A chance he couldn't let go of, because if _he_ stopped believing he could come home, then how was anyone else supposed to believe in him?

The door opened again, and Amelia rushed in. "Connor, I…" She trailed off as she threw her arms around him. "I'm so sorry," she managed after a moment.

"I know," Connor answered. There wasn't much else to say. She was sorry he'd been chosen. He was sorry he was going. Both of them would do anything to change it, but there was nothing that either of them could do. Nothing that would change what was about to happen. Where he was about to go. What he would have to do in order to come home.

Connor held back his tears as Amelia slipped something into his hand. A leather bracelet that she always wore. "Bring it back," she whispered, holding back tears. "When you come home."

 _When_. Yes, that was it. When, not if. _When_ he came home, he would give it back to her. And when he came home, he would have so much more to offer her. A Victor's earnings would set his family up for life, and they would have plenty to spare. He could provide not only for his own family, but for his friends. They would never want for anything again.

But first he had to win the Games. First he had to fight. He had to kill. Thirty-four other tributes would have to die in order for him to make it home.

Connor wrapped his arms around Amelia and held her close. He didn't want to think about that. Not now. Not yet. For now, he just wanted to make this moment last as long as he could. If these were his last moments in District Ten – or, at least, his last moments there until the Games were over – then this was how he wanted to spend them.

For a while, they simply sat there, holding each other close. Neither of them said anything, but they didn't need to. It was enough to simply be together a little longer.

But a little longer was all they had, because the Peacekeepers knocked on the door, signaling the end of Amelia's time. "Please come back," Amelia whispered, choking back tears as she finally let go. "Please."

Connor nodded a little as she left. It was strange, hearing that word from her. She was usually so confident, so sure of herself. To hear her begging, pleading for him to come back … that wasn't something he'd ever expected to hear.

Of course, he hadn't expected any of this. No one ever did. No matter their chances, no one ever really _expected_ to end up in the Games. There were so many other people. So many others who could have been chosen. But now none of them mattered. _He_ was the one who was going into the Games.

And he was the one who would be coming home.

* * *

" _That trusted home might yet enkindle you unto the crown."_


	15. District Eleven: All

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thank you to _upsettomcat42_ , _Tear That Cherry Out_ , and _renee walker_ for Kilian, Shanali, and Wes, respectively.

* * *

 **District Eleven  
** **All**

* * *

 **Tamsin Lane, 39  
** **Victor of the 27th Hunger Games**

The house was already bustling with people.

Tamsin stretched her arms as she joined the others in the kitchen. Her wife Marion and brother-in-law Elijah were already busy fixing breakfast for their nieces and nephews, many of whom were scampering around the room, filled with nervous energy. Technically, she and Marion had their own house next door in Victors' Village, but they usually spent the night before the reaping with the Whitakers, trying to calm the younger ones' nerves.

There were three of them eligible for the reaping this year. Alaric, who was sixteen, Tristan, who was fourteen, and Persephone, who was thirteen. They were safer than most of District Eleven's kids, of course. No one in their family had needed to take tesserae since Elijah's victory more than twenty years ago. None of them had been reaped since Marion. Maybe the Capitol figured they'd had their fill of drama when Tamsin had volunteered to take Marion's place. Maybe that had been enough to satisfy their need for excitement.

Tamsin ruffled Persephone's hair before joining Marion at the stove. "You should have woken me. I could have helped."

Marion hid a giggle. "Right. You could have helped with the cooking."

Tamsin smirked. "I could have tried."

"You and Elijah have plenty to worry about with the reaping," Marion pointed out. "I can take care of the food."

 _Fair enough._ "Has anyone checked on Violet?"

"I went over to offer her breakfast about ten minutes ago," Elijah answered. "She was … awake. Which is something. I invited her over, but I don't think she wanted to see anyone."

"Give her time," came a voice from behind them. Ivy. "It's only been four years since her Games," District Eleven's oldest Victor pointed out. "She needs to figure out how to deal with it in her own way. The best thing you can do is what you're doing – keep offering support, but give her space if she needs it."

Elijah shook his head. "I keep telling her she's welcome to come over if she wants to talk, but…"

"Sometimes people don't _want_ to talk," Tamsin pointed out. "Sometimes they just need time." Even after twenty-five years of mentoring, Elijah still couldn't seem to wrap his head around the idea that not everyone worked through their issues by _talking_ about them. If that had worked for him, that was great, but some people just needed to stew for a while.

Of course, there was too much of a good thing. Tobiah. Vernon. They were perfect examples of what happened if someone stewed a little _too_ long. And sometimes she worried that Violet was headed in the same direction. But there wasn't really anything that she or Elijah could do about that. There were problems that people just had to work out on their own.

"I just want her to know that there are people who are there for her," Elijah continued, oblivious. "I always had my family when I came back. Tamsin, you had us. Ivy, you had—"

"No one," Ivy pointed out. "And I did just fine. Violet will be fine – in time. Not right away. And not as quickly as you'd like, especially if you keep hounding her. But she'll come around in time. Everyone does."

Elijah shook his head. "Except the ones who don't."

Ivy sighed. "Look, you have a long day ahead of you. Why don't you two go get dressed for the reaping, and I'll finish up here. What do you say, Marion?"

Marion nodded. "Ivy and I can handle things here. Go ahead."

Tamsin sighed. She could always count on Ivy and Marion to keep things moving efficiently, even with children running this way and that all around them. "I'll see you at the reaping, then," she agreed, leaning in for a kiss. Marion drew her in a little closer and, for a moment, none of the rest mattered. For a moment, it was all worth it. The Games. The memories. Having to mentor year after year after year. It was worth all of it, just to be here with her.

Tamsin hugged Marion tightly before finally letting go and heading back to her room, where she dressed as quickly as she could before joining Elijah outside. "Ready?"

"Nope."

Tamsin shrugged. "Me, neither. Let's go get Violet."

Violet was less than happy to see them, but at least she was ready and waiting for them. "I was about to leave, anyway," she insisted. "You didn't have to come by."

"It's on the way," Elijah reasoned. "How are you doing?"

Violet shook her head. "Vienna's too old to be reaped this year … so not bad, I guess. Better than last year."

That was something. "It gets easier," Elijah assured her.

"I don't know how you do it," Violet admitted. "You've got … what? Four nieces and nephews who are in the bowl?"

Elijah shook his head. "Three this year. Nellie's nineteen now. But it's not like I really have much say in the matter. None of them are mine, and I can't exactly tell my brothers and sisters _not_ to have kids."

"Aren't you worried about them?"

"Of course I am. But we've been pretty lucky so far."

"Except you."

Elijah nodded. "Fair enough. But I got lucky, too. I survived. So did you."

Violet nodded as they headed for the square, but Tamsin could tell from the look on her face that she didn't consider herself lucky, no matter what Elijah might say. The three of them made their way down the path in silence. Finally, they reached the square, where the crowd was already starting to gather. There was no fuss, no applause as they took the stage. This wasn't a Career district, where Victors were practically worshiped. But it also wasn't a district that looked on its Victors with pity. The four of them had made it out of the Games alive, and they'd managed to get on with their lives, for the most part. That was the best their district could ask for.

Mayor Hamish nodded to them as they joined him onstage. "Ivy offered to help corral the little ones since she's not mentoring anymore?"

Tamsin nodded. "She'll be along soon." Ivy had done her part. She'd mentored for twenty-five years – most of them alone. She'd earned her retirement.

Sure enough, Ivy was only a few minutes behind, with the rest of the Whitaker family in tow. The rest of the family. Tamsin couldn't help a smile. The Whitakers had taken Ivy in without question after Elijah's victory, and they'd done the same for her. But despite their efforts to reach out to Violet, she'd never responded in quite the same way.

Ivy managed a smile as she joined the others onstage, and Tamsin nodded back. Maybe it had something to do with _how_ they'd ended up in the Games. Violet had been reaped, just like most of District Eleven's tributes. But both Tamsin and Ivy had volunteered for the Games. Tamsin had taken Marion's place, and Ivy had been hoping for a better life after losing her family in the rebellion. Both of them had come out of the Games with memories they would rather not have, but both of them had _chosen_ to be there. Violet hadn't.

But neither had Elijah, and he seemed to be doing fine.

Tamsin glanced over at her brother-in-law, who shrugged. Maybe it was better not to try to make sense of it – of who made it out of the Games more or less intact, and who came out damaged. Maybe it was simply a matter of luck, or of what happened during the Games themselves. She'd killed, yes, but, as far as arenas went, the playground she'd spent six days in couldn't really compare to spending two and a half weeks in a claustrophobic vineyard that had seemed more like a maze.

Finally, their escort, Osvaldo Case, joined them onstage, and the crowd grew a little quieter. Waiting. Just waiting. Osvaldo took his time, much to Mayor Hamish's clear annoyance. He greeted each of the Victors in turn, then turned his attention to the reaping bowl in the center of the stage. "It's so exciting, isn't it!" he crooned. "This sort of thing only happens once in twenty-five years! And you're lucky enough to be here to share it with me! How wonderful."

 _Get on with it._ But Tamsin knew better than to say it. Any sort of arguing with the escort could jeopardize their tributes' chances in the Capitol's eyes. Mayor Hamish, however, didn't seem to share that concern, and was rolling his eyes as Osvaldo finally reached into the reaping bowl. "And your first tribute for this year's Quarter Quell is … Kilian Romaine!"

Slowly, the seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a maroon shirt with the sleeves rolled up, brown pants, a black belt, and worn-out shoes. He was about average height but underfed, with dark brown skin, brown eyes, and a black semi-afro. His wide-brimmed glasses were taped together in several places, making him look a bit younger as he did his best to smile and wave at the crowd.

He made his way to the stage quickly, still waving – maybe an attempt to cover up the fact that he was trembling. Still, waving was better than crying, and Osvaldo quickly turned his attention back to the reaping bowl and drew a second slip of paper. "Wes … Barto … Bar- _tosh_ -es-ky? Bart-o- _she_ -sky? Bar-tos- _hes_ -ky? B-a-r-t-o—"

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Mayor Hamish muttered. "Bartoshesky."

By then, the sixteen-year-old section had already parted around a boy in a short-sleeved, blue button-down shirt, pressed black pants, and polished black shoes. A collection of leather bracelets circled his left wrist, and he wore a thin black necklace with a single white shell around his neck. He was a little taller than the first boy, broad-shouldered and lean, with dark skin, dark brown eyes, and a thin layer of black hair.

The boy looked to his left, then his right, as if trying to figure out why they had all stepped away from him. Once the Peacekeepers started making their way towards him, however, he finally started walking towards the stage, staring straight ahead as if not really understanding what was going on. Kilian gave him a pat on the back as Wes joined him beside Osvaldo. Tamsin held her breath as Osvaldo drew another name. _Just one more._

"Shanali Theisen!"

Tamsin tried to hide a sigh of relief. Alaric, Tristan, and Persephone were safe for another year. It was the seventeen-year-old section that parted again, this time around a girl in a dark brown jacket, black pants, and black shoes. She was about as tall as the boys and willowy, with dark skin, frizzy black hair, and dark brown eyes.

Almost immediately, she began making her way towards the stage, keeping her eyes on the people who waited for her there, avoiding the crowd's gaze. As she took her place by the boys, she held out her hand. Wes shook it, and then Kilian. The two boys shook hands with each other, and the cameras clicked off.

Tamsin let out a sigh of relief as the three of them were led away. Everything had gone about as well as could be expected. Sending teenagers to fight to the death would never be _good_ , but this certainly wasn't as bad as it could have been. All three of them were on the older side, and they'd all managed not to break down when they were chosen. All in all, it had been a fairly normal reaping.

Elijah turned to Violet as the crowd began to disperse, ignoring Mayor Hamish, who was scribbling something on a piece of paper. "Which one would you like?"

Violet shrugged as the mayor folded the piece of paper. "I'll take Wes."

"I'll take Shanali," Tamsin agreed.

"And that leaves Kilian for me," Elijah nodded. "You get it right, Mycr?"

Mayor Hamish smirked and tossed the folded piece of paper to Elijah. Elijah unfolded it and shook his head. "Tamsin – frizzy girl. Elijah – shaky boy. Violet – rich kid."

Violet glanced over his shoulder. "What are those numbers?"

"Six, twenty, thirty-one." He shook his head. "I wouldn't worry too much about those. Mycr just likes to make predictions. Since he apparently has nothing better to do with his time."

The mayor shrugged. "Call it a hobby. Enjoy the Capitol, you three."

Tamsin rolled her eyes as he left. "Don't mind him. He didn't think you were going to win, either. Or me. Or Elijah. So don't worry about it."

She just hoped he would be wrong again this year.

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16**

It was all he could do to keep from puking.

Wes clenched his fists tightly as the door opened and his parents rushed in. His stomach was churning, the breakfast he'd eaten only a few hours earlier threatening to make a reappearance. But he had to hold it together a little longer. Just a little longer. Tears stung his eyes as his parents threw their arms around him. "It's not fair," his father insisted. "It's just not fair."

Wes held his parents close. Of course it wasn't fair. Nothing about the Games was fair. Hell, the fact that the Games _existed_ in the first place wasn't fair. But he knew what his father meant. It wasn't fair that _he_ had been picked. As families went in District Eleven, his was rather well-off. He'd never had to take tesserae in order to help the family get by. His name had only been in the reaping bowl the required five times.

But that hadn't been enough to save him. And then the escort had made a fool of himself trying to pronounce his family's last name, which the Capitol announcers would almost certainly make a joke out of. They wouldn't care what he could do; he would just be the District Eleven kid with the funny last name.

Maybe it didn't really matter what they thought. He didn't usually make a big deal out of what others thought of him. He was who he was, and they were who they were. Usually, their opinions didn't matter. But once he was in the Games, the opinions of the Capitolites could help keep him _alive_. And right now, they probably didn't have a high opinion of him.

So he would have to show them something different.

But did he really _have_ anything different to show them? Anything to make him stand out from the other thirty-four tributes who would be in the arena? He certainly didn't _feel_ any different. He'd never really thought of himself as a fighter. He certainly didn't feel like one now, with his stomach turning over and his hands growing clammy. But that was what he would have to be in order to survive. A fighter.

A killer.

Wes fought back another wave of nausea at the thought. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to kill _anyone._ He'd never been in a real fight in his life. Sure, he'd gotten into arguments. Shouting matches. He'd gotten angry … but not violent. What would it even feel like to be _that_ angry at someone?

Wes closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the feeling. Because most tributes in the Games, he knew, weren't actually _angry_ at each other. They were just desperate. Desperate enough to kill in order to survive. But, in a way, that was even worse. At least if he were angry enough at someone to kill them, it might feel good. Maybe. But just killing someone out of desperation, out of fear of what might happen if he let them live … that was even harder to imagine.

"It'll be all right," his mother insisted. "You can do this." Wes swallowed hard. He wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe that she meant it. But she _had_ to say that. Just like thirty-four other mothers or fathers all across Panem were saying the same thing to their children. Children just like him. Thirty-five of them were going into the Games with the same hope, the same longing to come back to their families.

But only one of them would be coming home.

* * *

 **Kilian Romane, 17**

It was all he could do to keep from shaking.

Kilian clenched his fists tightly, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling as the door opened. His father and younger brother Devan were escorted in by the Peacekeepers, and Devan immediately ran to Kilian's side and threw his arms around his brother. Kilian held him tightly – but not _too_ tightly. He hadn't always been so gentle with his little brother. Devan had been born with a stunted arm, weak legs, and a bit of a hunch. For years, Kilian and his older sister Kiva had taken their frustrations out on their youngest sibling, until their father had finally stepped in.

Kilian had stopped; Kiva hadn't. She'd moved out of the house when she'd turned eighteen and hadn't looked back. Kilian had stayed, trying his best to make it up to his brother. He'd dropped out of school two years ago to go to work in the fields full-time so that Devan wouldn't have to take out tesserae and increase his chances of being chosen for the Games. If he was picked…

But he hadn't been picked. Kilian had. And while he certainly stood a better chance than Devan would, he knew better than to think it would be easy. In forty-nine years of the Games, District Eleven had brought home four Victors. Four. That was more than some districts, yes, but still not great odds.

Kilian shook his head. His odds had nothing to do with District Eleven's previous tributes. He wasn't them. He didn't _want_ to be them. He didn't _want_ any of this.

But he didn't have any choice in the matter. This year, there was no one who did. None of them wanted to be there – even the tributes from Career districts that would normally send volunteers. Even they were being chosen at random, and the chances of them picking someone who actually _wanted_ to be in the Games seemed … well, slim. None of them had a choice. None of them wanted to be here.

But this was where he was. Saying goodbye to his family. Soon, he would be on a train, headed for the Capitol. And if he ever wanted to see them again, thirty-four other tributes would have to die.

And he would have to kill some of them. How many, he wasn't sure, but the last time someone had won without killing was … what? Forty-five years ago? Forty-six? It certainly wouldn't be happening again this year. Not during a Quarter Quell, when the Capitol wanted to see more blood and gore than ever. Not when there were thirty-five tributes in the Games.

So he would have to kill someone. Another person. Probably more than one other person. Kilian held Devan close, shaking his head. His father laid a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. Kilian looked up, and his father nodded. But what did that mean? Was he giving his … approval? His understanding of what Kilian would have to do in order to come home.

That didn't make it all right. That didn't mean that killing would be any easier. But knowing that his father understood … that his family knew that he would have to do something terrible in order to return – and that that didn't make him a monster – that meant more than he would have thought it could.

Kilian nodded silently, holding onto Devan as long as he could before the Peacekeepers came to take his family away. In order to come home to them, he would have to do terrible things. But it would be worth it – it would _all_ be worth it – just to see them again.

He would just have to hope that was true.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17**

It was all she could do to keep her composure.

Shanali shook her head as her parents left, leaving the awkward silence behind them. It had been a while since they had even spoken, let alone had a real conversation. Of course this wouldn't be the exception. They had moved on with their lives since she had moved out of the house, and so had she. There had never been much love there; even when they'd been living under the same roof, they'd merely tolerated each other. Why should she expect anything different now?

She'd been hoping for a warmer goodbye from her brother, Antoine, but he'd barely said two words when he'd come in with their aunt, Taissa. Maybe he'd simply been trying to hold it together. Maybe he just didn't know what to say. What would _she_ have said, if he was the one who had been picked? Taissa hadn't had much to say either, after all, but she'd never really needed to say anything. A hug had been enough. It always was.

Finally, the door opened again, and her friends burst in. Shanali let out a sigh of relief as they rushed over, showering her in hugs. "I'm so sorry," Harriet whispered as she and the others wrapped Shanali in a group hug. "Why did it have to be you? I—"

"It had to be someone," Shanali pointed out. She'd had the same chance as anyone else, after all. Maybe a little more, considering her age, and how much tesserae she'd taken. Maybe running away from her parents' house hadn't been the brightest move on that account, but she still wouldn't take it back. She'd learned to fend for herself, to be her own person, and that was worth whatever might come after.

Wasn't it?

Shanali shook her head as her friends let go. Harriet was still shaking her head in disbelief. Kieren and Estelle were near tears. Faye and Jacques were trying to hold it together, but she could see the tears in their eyes. She could feel the trembling in their hands as they held her close. She was shaking, too – and why not? The reaping was over. There was no one left to impress. She'd never felt the need to try to impress them before. Why should things be any different now that…

Now that she might never see them again. That was what none of them wanted to say. What none of them ended up saying in the next few minutes, until the Peacekeepers came to take them away. But they didn't have to say it. They all understood. There was a chance – a pretty high chance, if she was being honest – that she wouldn't be coming back. And if she did…

If she did, nothing would be the same. But would that change be for better or worse? Some of their Victors had managed to make a life for themselves. Elijah's victory had lifted his family out of poverty, and Tamsin had been quick to join them. Maybe Ivy was bitter after so many years of mentoring, but at least she was able to live in comfort now that she was older. And Violet, their newest Victor … well, she seemed to be the exception. But maybe that was because her victory was so recent. Maybe things would get better.

Shanali took a deep breath as the door closed behind her friends. It didn't matter, really, what the Victors had done, how they had reacted. None of that meant anything about whether she would be able to cope with winning. At the very least, all four of them were still alive, which was more than could be said about the other tributes who had entered their Games. As long as they were alive, there was a chance for something better.

But if she wanted that chance, she would have to be willing to fight for it.

* * *

" _I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none."_


	16. District Twelve: Away

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And that's it for the reapings! Whew! Just a couple things before we move on to the rest of the Games.

First, there's a poll on my profile asking which tributes are your favorites. Mostly I'm just curious, but this also helps me get a feel for who people are connecting with and who might need a little more time to shine. Feel free to vote for as many or as few tributes as you like. Obviously, I can't stop you from voting for your own tributes, but try to avoid _only_ voting for your own. If they're the only one you like, I'm doing something wrong. ;)

Second, if you have any suggestions for allies for your tribute, feel free to shoot me a PM. I've got some ideas of my own, and depending on how many suggestions I get, I may not be able to accommodate everyone, but I always like to hear your ideas.

Last, thank you to _97Bo97_ and _paperairline_ for David and Orphelia, respectively.

* * *

 **District Twelve  
** **Away**

* * *

 **Kyra Presper, 13  
** **Victor of the 49th Hunger Games**

She still couldn't escape the smell.

Kyra glanced up at Brennan as the pair of them headed for the square. She was safe now; she kept reminding herself of that. But every now and then, she'd catch a whiff of something. Something that would remind her of the stench in the arena. The rotting corpses in the hospital she had been trapped in for nearly four weeks. Every now and then, when the wind blew past the morgue, or when there was a dead animal in the street, everything would come rushing back. The fear. The panic. The desire – the urgent _need_ – to escape. To get away from…

From what? There was nothing to get away from – not anymore. And nowhere to go, even if she wanted to get away. She was back in District Twelve, and she would spend the rest of her life there. Sometimes she wondered if that was what she really wanted.

But not often. Because the only other option was being dead, and if she'd wanted that … well, she'd had plenty of chances in the arena. She could have given up then, but she hadn't. She'd fought. For twenty-six days, she'd fought to stay alive. And she'd won. She'd _survived_.

She was still alive.

And now it was her job to help someone else do the same. Kyra held her breath, trying to block out the smell as they walked. But she couldn't hold her breath forever. And she couldn't afford to break down now. Not when someone was counting on her – someone who didn't even know it yet. Someone who would be depending on her for their life, who—

She could feel Brennan's hand on her shoulder before she even realized she had stopped in her tracks. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

 _No._ "Getting there." She barely managed to squeak out the words, gripping his gloved hand tightly. _You can do this. It's just a smell. Just a dead animal somewhere._ A dead animal wasn't going to hurt her. Not like the mummified corpses that had driven her to the finale. Not like the bodies of her fellow tributes that had been left to rot in the arena. This wasn't the same. This _wasn't_ the Games.

Except it was. Or, at least, it was about to be. Brennan had done his best to prepare her, but there was no telling what might await them in the Capitol this year. No way of knowing what the Gamemakers had planned. As horrible as her own Games had been, what if this was worse? It was a Quarter Quell, after all. Only one person had survived one of those.

And he was standing right beside her.

Brennan gave her hand a squeeze as the wind changed, and the smell died down. "It's all right. You can do this."

"Not if I can't even get to the square."

"You _can_. It'll always be worse when it's time for the Games, but it'll get easier. What you're going through – it happens to all of us."

"Even you?" In the year since her Games, she'd never seen him break down. Never seen him lose his cool. She'd never even heard him shout.

Brennan chuckled a little as they started walking again. "Even me. For me … for me, it's music."

"Music?"

"Before the end of the Games, my district partner Blythe and I separated. I wandered the space station for a while, eating whatever I could find. Rats, mostly. They lived in the ducts running through the station. I followed them in, and I could hear singing. At first, I thought it was just the engines humming, but then I found the mutt. Some sort of creature. And it was … singing. Chanting, really. It was strange. Beautiful."

 _Beautiful._ That wasn't a word she would have used to describe anything in the Games. "I know," Brennan agreed. "An odd thing to find in the arena – beauty. But it didn't last. The next time I heard the music, my mentor sent me a message, telling me to follow it. And … well, I think you know what happened next."

She did. For a long time, she hadn't, and it had come as a surprise when she'd finally seen it on tape. The music had led Brennan to his district partner and former ally, Blythe, and he had killed her in cold blood. She'd been unarmed. She'd barely had the chance to fight back. Just like…

Just like Amber, her own ally from District Ten. They'd gotten separated during the bloodbath, when Amber had rushed in to get supplies. When Amber had finally found her, she'd offered Kyra a knife that she'd retrieved from the pile. But no sooner had Kyra taken the weapon than she'd turned on Amber and attacked. It had been easier than she'd thought – driving the knife into her own ally's throat. Amber had been her first kill, but not her last. Five more had followed before the Games were finally over.

"So you don't like music?" Kyra ventured.

Brennan shook his head. "Not all music. Mind you, there's little enough music in District Twelve as it is, but in the Capitol … there's always more. And every so often, a snippet here or there will bring the memories back, just as strong as ever. It's not something you ever get rid of – not really. Not something you'll ever escape. But it's something you can learn to live with."

Kyra nodded as they reached the square. She hoped so. "Thanks," she whispered as the two of them made their way through the crowd.

Brennan shook his head. "Thank _you_. Having someone with me this year … that already makes it a little easier."

"Even though the tributes will probably be older than me?"

Brennan shrugged. "I was sixteen the first year I mentored – alone. Both of my tributes that year were older than me. That doesn't matter. You're the one who's been in the Games – and _you_ were in the arena longer than anyone else in Hunger Games history. If anyone has a right to give advice, it's you."

Kyra managed a smile. He was trying to make her feel better; that much was obvious. There were plenty of people more qualified to give advice on the Games. Every other Victor had been mentoring longer than her. She'd survived the longest Games in history, but Brennan had survived a Quarter Quell, and mentored alone for twenty-four years.

But not this year. This year, they would face the Games together. The crowd quieted as the pair of them took the stage. Maybe they weren't considered heroes the way that Victors in Career districts were, but the district still looked to them as examples. As proof that the Games weren't as hopeless as they usually seemed to be.

Still, the fact remained that District Twelve had only won the Games twice. Which was why they were only sending two tributes this year – just like every other year. She was barely old enough to have any clear memories of the rebellion during the 41st Games, but everyone knew that District Twelve had played no part in it. That Brennan had convinced his tributes to fight despite the rebels' efforts to bring the Games to a halt.

Brennan's expression was carefully neutral as they took their seats onstage. He didn't have any particular love for the Capitol; no one in District Twelve did. He hadn't been motivated by loyalty – just the realization that the rebels' cause was hopeless. That they didn't stand a chance. If there was one thing that people learned growing up in District Twelve, it was how to recognize a lost cause.

Still, the Capitol had rewarded District Twelve for what they perceived as loyalty. In addition to being spared retribution for the rebellion and not having to send extra tributes since then, the Capitol had arranged to send some of the resources from District Four's former training center to District Twelve. Weapons, mostly – but not the experienced trainers to go with them. So the weapons hadn't really seen much use. Just the odd rich teenager with nothing better to occupy their time than wandering down to Victors' Village for an improvised lesson from someone who didn't really know what he was doing.

Brennan would have used the same phrase – and _had,_ in fact. He hadn't won his Games due to any particular skill with a weapon, and his crippled right hand left him at a bit of a disadvantage trying to train anyone who might have been interested. Still, the offer remained open, and the Capitol played it up every year, wondering if this might be the year that District Twelve finally had a Career volunteer.

It never was. And it wouldn't be this year, either – not when volunteers weren't allowed at all. Twelve had never had _any_ volunteers, let alone a volunteer with _training_. There was no reason to think this year would have been any different even without the quell twist.

Still, their escort, Valentine Sullivan, seemed even more cheerful than usual as he took the stage, clapping Brennan on the back and beaming as he approached Kyra. "And how's our newest Victor doing? Ready for your first year as a mentor?"

 _Ready?_ No. She wasn't ready for this. But maybe no one was ever ready for this. Kyra nodded a little. "Absolutely," she lied. "Are you?"

"Oh, yes, I am!" Valentine called, turning towards the crowd. "Did you hear that, District Twelve? Your brand new Victor is ready to help District Twelve bring home another win! Let's hear it for her!"

The crowd didn't clap. They barely stirred. But she hadn't really expected anything else. The Games weren't something that deserved applause – not in District Twelve. Not when, for twenty-four years, Brennan had been the only Victor sitting on that stage – a stage that had been empty for years before his own victory. They were still alive, and that was something. But it wasn't a win.

The crowd remained silent as Valentine reached into the single reaping bowl onstage and swished the papers around a little to mix them up before drawing a name. He unfolded it slowly – _so_ slowly – but finally read the name. "David Abadi!"

The fourteen-year-old section slowly parted around a boy in a black t-shirt, jeans, and shiny black shoes. He was a little taller than her and a bit chubby, with pale skin, curly black hair, and brown eyes surrounded by round, black-rimmed glasses. He looked around, surprised, as if trying to figure out why everyone was looking at him.

When he finally figured it out, he took a step backwards – but only one. His next step was towards the stage – and the next. Slowly, ever so slowly, he made his way forward, glancing this way and that as if waiting for something – something that wasn't going to happen. Not in this district. And certainly not this year. Even so, the Peacekeepers didn't step in to hurry him up. They usually didn't step in during a reaping unless they were absolutely needed. Not in District Twelve, which they now considered a loyal district.

Sure enough, the boy eventually reached the stage on his own and climbed the stairs. "Dav-eed," he corrected quietly. "It's pronounced Dav-eed."

"Oops, I'm terribly sorry about that," Valentine quickly apologized. "Dav-EED Abadi, everyone!" he announced before turning his attention back to the reaping bowl and drawing a second slip. "And joining Dav-EED will be … Orphelis Mykonos!"

This time, it was the seventeen-year-old section that parted around a girl in a long, silver dress. She was about as tall as the boy, with fair skin and curly strawberry blonde hair that hung to the middle of her chest. There were freckles across her face, and her dull green eyes widened as she realized what was happening. She shook her head as she took one step forward, and then another, half-walking, half-stumbling towards the stage.

Suddenly, she veered sharply off to the right, towards the adult section of the crowd. Towards a man in the crowd who was probably her father. Kyra couldn't hear what the girl was saying, but she could imagine. She was probably begging for help, for someone to do something. But no one would. They knew better.

Sure enough, the Peacekeepers started towards her, and the man stepped back into the crowd. He knew better than to do anything to interfere. One of the Peacekeepers took hold of the girl's arm, and, for a moment, Kyra thought she might try to run. To fight back. Instead, she broke into tears, sobbing as the Peacekeeper led her to the stage.

Valentine quickly helped her up the stairs and offered a pat on the shoulder that was probably supposed to be comforting. "There, there, my dear. Come shake hands with your new district partner." He nodded to David, who held out his hand to Orphelia. She wiped away a few tears, but, by the time they'd shaken hands, more tears had taken their place.

"It's not fair," Orphelia sobbed as the Peacekeepers led the two of them away. "It's not fair. Please. Please, just let me go home."

"I'll take her," Brennan offered once they were out of earshot. "You'll have enough to worry about without having to calm her down."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. I'm just glad I don't have to take them both this year."

Kyra nodded. He kept saying that – that he was glad she was there, that he was just grateful not to be alone this year. Did he really mean it, or was he just trying to make sure that she felt wanted? That she felt _needed_? Was he worried about what might happen if she didn't?

Kyra shook the thought from her head. He was just being kind; that was all. Just kind. Almost a full year after Brennan had offered to take her into his home, the thought of someone being kind just because they could – or maybe because they _should_ – was still so unfamiliar. So unlike anything in her life before the Games.

That alone made escaping the arena worth it.

* * *

 **Orphelia Mykonos, 17**

She would never be able to escape now.

Orphelia wiped the tears from her eyes as her parents and younger brother Quinton entered the room. Immediately, her mother threw her arms around her. "I'm so sorry. If there was anything we could have done—"

"Why didn't you?" Orphelia insisted. "You didn't even _try_. You could have told the Peacekeepers to let me go. You could have offered them _anything._ But you just stood there and let them take me! And now I won't be able to get away."

"Orphelia—" her father started.

"I won't get another chance," Orphelia interrupted. "They'll be watching me now – every second. If you had done something to distract them, then—"

"Then _what_?" her father asked firmly. "What do you think would have happened?"

"I…" She hadn't really thought that far. She'd only been thinking about getting away – not about what she might do afterwards. "I don't know," she admitted. "But anything would be better than this."

Her father shook his head. "No. There are no better scenarios – not once they called your name. You have to understand, Orphelia. From that moment, anything we might do to try to help you would actually put you in danger. There's _nothing_ we could have done that would actually have made them let you go."

"How do you know? You didn't even _try_?"

"Because I've seen it. I've seen what happens when people try to interfere with the reapings, and the Capitol wouldn't hesitate to take it out on you once the Games began. The safest thing to do is to let things play out."

"Safest for me? Or safest for you?"

"For _everyone._ "

Orphelia clenched her fists. This certainly didn't feel safe. But the worst part was, her father was making sense. Her family was one of the wealthiest in District Twelve, yes, but it had only been eight years since the mayor had lost his own daughter to the Games. If _he_ hadn't been able to bribe the Peacekeepers into letting his daughter go, could she really expect her own father to succeed?

Her father pulled her close and slipped something into her hand – a small coin. "It won't save you," he admitted. "But you can save yourself. You'll have to work for it. You'll have to fight for it. But you can do this, and we'll be here waiting for you when you come home."

 _When you come home._ Did he really believe that? Did he really believe that she would be coming home, or was he just trying to say something nice? If this was the last time he was going to see her, of course he wouldn't want to admit that he didn't believe she had what it took. That she wouldn't be coming home. That…

Orphelia buried her face in her father's shirt. "I just want to go home," she whispered. But in order for that to happen, she would have to win. She would have to fight and kill. She'd never been in a fight in her life – not really. Certainly not a physical one. She'd gotten angry, yes, but never angry enough to hurt someone. Never angry enough to actually _kill_ anyone.

Now all of that would have to change.

* * *

 **David Abadi, 14**

At least his sister had escaped the reapings.

David took a deep breath, trying to force a smile onto his face as his family entered the room. His parents, his grandmother, his older sister – they had all come to say goodbye. Maybe they would get lucky and his grandmother would actually remember who he was … but not why he was there. Not where he was about to go.

David threw his arms around his grandmother, and she grinned back at him. "Well, hello there, Abe. How are things going today?"

Abe. That was his father's name. Close enough. "I'm going to have to go away for a while," David answered quietly. "I wish I didn't have to, but—"

"Oh, you're always up to something, aren't you," the old woman smiled fondly. "Always off on adventures, coming back with such stories. Why, I remember when you were younger … funny, you look so young now."

David nodded a little as his sister Sydney wrapped her arms around him. Maybe their grandmother didn't quite remember _who_ he was, but she knew that she loved him. She loved all of them. And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

David squeezed Sydney a little tighter. She was safe. Technically, she had been safe since last year, but she had only turned nineteen a few days before this reaping. And with a Quell twist, none of them had really felt safe until it had been officially announced that the reaping ages would remain as normal. In fact, this was as normal a reaping as Twelve could have had. Two tributes. One boy, one girl. All perfectly normal.

Except they had picked him.

"It'll be all right," Sydney whispered, squeezing him a little tighter. David said nothing. There was nothing to say – not really. He was glad she was safe, of course, but that wasn't really going to help him. Maybe the fact that he wouldn't be facing his sister in the Games should have been comforting, but why did it have to be _him_ going into the Games at all?

 _It isn't fair._ That was what his district partner hadn't been able to stop saying as the Peacekeepers had led them to the Justice Building. And she was right. It wasn't fair – to either of them. Maybe he wasn't going into the Games with his sister, but everyone in the arena was _someone's_ brother or sister or son or daughter. Maybe a few of them didn't have families, like Kyra the year before, but that didn't mean that there wasn't anyone who cared about them, who was waiting for them to come home just like his family would be waiting for him.

David held back his tears as his sister slipped something into his hand – the ring he'd given her only a few days before, for her birthday. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly. "If I don't come back—"

"Then make sure you come back," Sydney finished. David nodded. It was the only thing he could really do. He didn't want to tell them the truth – that he wasn't sure he had it in him to kill anybody. To win the Games. Especially during a Quarter Quell. And especially now that no one would be underestimating a younger kid from District Twelve. Kyra had won the year before, after all. And no one had thought that _she_ had it in her to kill, either.

So maybe he _did_ have a chance of getting out of this alive.

* * *

" _And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, but shift away: there's warrant in that theft which steals itself, when there's no mercy left."_


	17. Train Rides: Horrible Imaginings

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games still isn't mine.

 **Note:** Just a couple quick things.

First, if you have preferences about alliances, please try to let me know soon. (If not, I'll just go with whatever I think works best.)

Second, a reminder to vote in the favorite tributes poll on my profile if you haven't yet.

Third, a quick shout-out to some SYOTs in need of tributes. _etherealepiphany_ is working on an SYOT of the First Games. _Wonder Tribute_ is working on a self-described "sillier" "randomly generated" SYOT. And _asa-hanada_ is working on an AU one where citizens are free to move from district to district, which opens up some pretty interesting possibilities for backstories. Check them out and send some tributes their way!

Lastly, just wanted to mention that this is the first of three train ride chapters. If your tribute doesn't get a POV here (or in the other two) it's not because I didn't like them as much. Everyone will get a POV during training, and I'll try to make sure everyone gets a chance to shine before tribute inevitably start dying off in the bloodbath. These are simply the tributes whose POVs I felt worked best for these particular chapters.

* * *

 **Train Rides  
** **Horrible Imaginings**

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

She'd never imagined that she would be here.

Genevieve couldn't help a smile as she settled down onto the couch beside Jasper. Her mentor. Jasper Floren, District One's youngest Victor. Jade and Stellar were already seated on the next couch over. Consus had taken a seat beside Stellar, while Mae sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them. On the couch beside them, Felix and Justus were already watching the screen, even though their district's reaping was the one playing. Between the eight of them, they almost looked like…

What? A family? As strange as it seemed, there was a certain family-like quality to the gathering. The eight of them had one goal, after all: bring home another Victor for District One. The only thing that separated them was _who_ they wanted to bring home.

District One's reaping ended with the roaring cheer of the crowd. Then it was on to District Two. Genevieve leaned forward a little. District Two was usually a Career district, of course, but so was One. How many of _their_ tributes had turned out to be Careers?

First came a fourteen-year-old boy – a bit young, but strong-looking for his age, and smiling a little as he took the stage. Then a nervous-looking eighteen-year-old, followed by a twelve-year-old with a smirk on her face. Then two more eighteen-year-olds. The first took a while to make her way to the stage, but that was better than the second, who broke down crying until Vester, of all people, had to retrieve him from the crowd.

"I'll bet the younger girl has some training," Jade reasoned. "Maybe the younger boy, too. We might have a Career pack yet."

Genevieve turned her attention back to the screen. A Career pack. They were already thinking about who to allow into the Career pack. But did that include her? She could ask Jasper later, of course, but she had a feeling she already knew the answer. She wasn't a Career. If any of the others had ever seen her standing around the training academy – standing, but never training – then they would know better than to let her into the Career pack.

District Three was up next, but their tributes didn't look particularly promising. The girl was doing at least a passable job of looking unconcerned until she tripped over the stairs on her way up. But that mishap was quickly overshadowed by the other tribute, a younger boy who had a panic attack and had to be dragged to the stage, where Miriam had to help him up. Genevieve couldn't help a scoff. He was as good as dead already. The girl might last a little longer, but clumsiness in the arena could be as deadly as fear. How many tributes had died because of a simple mishap, a slip-up or a wrong step somewhere? If she couldn't even focus on where she was stepping on the way to the stage, how would she be able to focus in the arena?

District Four's tributes looked a bit more promising, even without volunteers. Not all of their tributes in recent years had been volunteers, anyway. Training in District Four had taken a hit since the fiasco during the 41st Games, and having to send extra tributes had only added to the likelihood of some of the spots being filled by non-Careers.

The first boy, however, looked pretty strong. Maybe he'd even been training. He was eighteen, well-built, and at least managed to smile as he took the stage. Then came two fifteen-year-old girls, the first one screaming and begging. The second was a bit more composed but way too skinny to be a Career. Last came another eighteen-year-old boy who started laughing immediately after his name was called, then yelled at the Peacekeepers before heading to the stage, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"He'll be one to watch out for," Stellar observed as the tape moved on. "And the first boy, maybe. Let's see about District Five."

Genevieve nodded. District Five had started training Careers later than One, Two, and Four, but they'd quickly earned their place and had boasted three wins in the eleven years since District One's last victory. Maybe they were a bit unconventional, but they certainly weren't to be underestimated.

The first girl certainly seemed like Career material, grinning proudly as she took the stage, the crowd cheering her on. She was seventeen – certainly old enough to have quite a bit of training. More than the younger Careers they'd seen already. Next came an eighteen-year-old boy who didn't look quite as confident, but once he reached the stage, Oliver gave him a thumbs-up, and the boy broke into a grin and started waving at the crowd.

The next two boys, however, certainly weren't as promising. The twelve-year-old was bawling as he took the stage, and the sixteen-year-old immediately declared himself a 'dead man walking.'

"Well, the first two weren't bad," Genevieve offered optimistically.

Justus chuckled a little. "I guess that does it for the potential Career pack."

Jade shook his head. "Not necessarily. If the pickings are slim this year as far as actual Careers, you might want to consider tributes from other districts. That's what I did during my Games."

"Forty years ago," Justus pointed out.

"Forty-three," Mae corrected.

Justus smirked. "Fair enough. The point was, I think we have enough options from within Career districts. But if you really think we should look elsewhere…"

"I just think we should consider the possibility," Jade agreed as the tape moved on to District Six. The first girl ended up arguing with a girl who was apparently her twin … and who would probably have been a better choice, from the look of her. The second girl was eighteen and, strangely enough, smiling. Odd for an outer-district tribute, but that didn't automatically mean she was a threat – just that she was good at playing the part.

District Seven's tributes were both older – an eighteen-year-old boy and seventeen-year-old girl – and both managed to hold it together as long as the cameras were on. After that, the districts quickly went downhill. One of District Eight's tributes fainted after a man who was old enough to be her grandfather tried to fight the Peacekeepers off her.

District Nine was looking a bit more promising until the last tribute, a thirteen-year-old boy who couldn't even find his way to the stage on his own. Both of District Ten's boys were crying. District Eleven's tributes, at least, managed to make it to the stage without a fuss – aside from the escort butchering the name of one of the boys. The boy from Twelve was only fourteen, and the girl was crying all the way to the stage, begging her father to intervene and save her. Pathetic.

Almost immediately after the tape clicked off, Consus stood up and headed for the other room. Stellar followed, silently acknowledging that he wasn't going to take part in the discussion about who should be allowed in the pack. Not that any of them had expected otherwise. He clearly wasn't Career material.

Genevieve started to stand up, glancing over at Jasper. "Maybe we should…"

Justus shook his head. "No. You can stay." Mae opened her mouth to object, but Justus cut her off. "We'll need numbers. Maybe you don't have any training, but I've seen you around the academy with your friends. Watching. Learning. I bet there's not a tribute out there who knows more about previous Games, and the audience will love you. So what do you say?"

Genevieve turned to Jasper, who shrugged. "It's up to you."

Up to her. Justus was offering to let her join the pack. But was he offering because he really thought she would be useful, or because they needed extra bodies? Someone who would make an easier target for the other tributes to pick off first?

She wanted time. Time to decide. But the tone in Justus' voice was enough to tell her that he expected a decision now. If she said no, it would be too late to change her mind later. And if she said yes, changing her mind later would brand her as a traitor to the pack. Whatever choice she made now could decide how the Games went. Genevieve hesitated a moment, but then sat back down.

"So who else is joining us?"

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

He'd never imagined this would happen to him.

Merrik wrapped his arms around his knees as he sat in his room, rocking back and forth a little on the bed. He was supposed to join the others for dinner soon. But he couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop _crying._ Maybe that was normal, but Dinah had certainly seemed more composed. As if she wasn't scared. As if she wouldn't _let_ herself be scared.

He wished he could do that.

Finally, he stood up. Miriam had suggested that they change before dinner, but he hadn't even been able to calm down long enough to do that. His clothes … maybe they weren't much, but they were a little reminder of District Three. A little reminder of home. Once he put on something else – something from the _Capitol_ – that would just make it more real.

And he didn't _want_ it to be more real. He wanted to believe that he was imagining everything. That he would wake up any moment now, and it would all be a dream. Even watching the rest of the reapings earlier hadn't been enough to shake the thought from his mind. All those kids – they didn't quite seem real yet. They were just faces on a screen.

Maybe they were thinking the same thing about him. Or maybe not. Maybe he was the odd one out. But was that good or bad? Part of him wanted to believe that it was good that he was afraid. That he would have to be crazy _not_ to be scared. But year after year, tributes had been able to put aside their fear and get on with what had to be done. Get on with fighting, with killing, with winning the Games. Would he ever be able to focus enough to do that?

Not now. He didn't need to fight now. Didn't need to _kill_ anyone now. Right now, he just needed to change into something else for dinner. Slowly, he slipped off his shirt and chose another one from the closet. A nice, soft, blue-grey shirt. It almost felt _good._ Probably would have felt good under any other circumstances.

 _Don't think about the circumstances._ Slowly, still shaking, he chose a pair of black pants and a pair of tan slippers. Everything was so _soft_. So comfortable. As if everything in the room was here to distract him from what was about to happen. What he would be expected to do. What he would be expected to _become_.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. Miriam, probably. Wondering what was taking him so long. Merrik clenched his fists tightly. What _was_ taking him so long? Why couldn't he just pull himself together?

"Hello?" came a voice from the other side. "Are you still in there?"

Merrik hesitated. He couldn't be sure, but the voice didn't sound like Miriam. "Avery?"

"Yes. Mind if I come in?"

"Okay," Merrik said quietly. When the door still didn't open, he tried again. "Okay. You can come in."

The door creaked open, and Avery stepped inside. "Just wanted to make sure you were still all right."

 _All right._ Merrik nodded. "Sure. I'm all right."

"No, you're not," Avery shrugged. "There'd be something wrong with you if you were. You're a tribute now; none of us are ever all right again."

Merrik looked away. "You mean you were scared before…"

"Before my Games? Of course. And _during_ them. And for a good long while afterwards. I probably don't have to tell you why."

She didn't. He'd only been six years old during Avery's Games, but that was old enough to remember. Her arena had been fashioned after Mount Olympus, but after the rebels were the only ones left, they had been dragged down to a recreation of the underworld, where the twelve of them had been tortured until…

Until one of them had caved and given in to the Capitol's demands. Avery had agreed to kill the others, and, in return, had been allowed to live. She had been frightened, and it had saved her life. So of course she didn't mind that he was frightened now. But fear didn't always turn out to play in a tribute's favor. Her Games had been the exception.

Hadn't they?

Maybe. Or maybe fear was normal. But normal or not, it certainly didn't feel _good_. And it didn't change what was happening. It just made it harder to deal with. "How do you handle it?" Merrik asked quietly.

Avery shrugged. "If you ever figure that out, be sure to let me know."

 _Great._ So even the Victors didn't really know what they were doing, didn't really know how to deal with the fear that came with the Games. All they could do was hope their tributes would be able to get through it, just as they had. Avery put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. The others are already waiting for us for dinner. Well, I don't know if they're actually _waiting_ for us…"

He hoped not. It wouldn't be fair to ask the others to wait on his account. Still, the thought that they might be waiting for him to start was enough to prompt him to follow Avery out the door and into the next car where, sure enough, the others had started eating already. "Sorry we didn't wait," Percival called, "but we weren't sure how long you were going to be and … well, we were hungry."

Merrik nodded and took a seat between Avery and Miriam. He was hungry, too. Hungrier than he wanted to admit. He helped himself to some of the chicken, several vegetables, and a couple rolls before finally digging in. It was good. Even better than he'd expected, really. Everyone talked about how delicious Capitol food must be, and they weren't exaggerating. He just wished he hadn't had to become a tribute in order to get a taste.

"So what did you think of the other reapings?" Dinah asked, clearly trying to make conversation. "At least there weren't as many actual Careers as normal."

Her comment was met with silence for a moment before Percival leaned towards her a little. "Maybe we should save the talk about strategy for later, when we're alone…"

There it was. He hadn't exactly been expecting an alliance with his district partner, but the immediate rejection hurt more than he wanted to admit. But what had he been expecting? He'd completely broken down crying at the reaping had had taken almost an hour just to change his clothes and come to dinner. He was a mess. Of course she wouldn't want to form an alliance – or even discuss strategy while he was in the room.

Dinah shrugged. "It wasn't really _strategy_. I was just saying that there aren't as many Careers as normal. That's good, right? For all of us."

Percival glanced at Miriam, who shrugged helplessly, as if giving him permission to go ahead. "Good in some ways," Percival agreed. "But not in others. Careers, for all their danger, usually take the brunt of the responsibility for keeping the Games moving. For keeping things interesting. They're the ones who are expected to go out and hunt, to look for other tributes, because that's what the audience expects them to do. With that expectation gone – or at least lightened a little, from the look of their numbers – the burden is back on other tributes to do something interesting."

"Something interesting," Merrik echoed. "Like you?"

Percival turned, surprised. Why? Everybody in District Three knew how he had won. He had spent the better portion of his Games hiding away in the basement of the opera house, attacking anyone who dared approach and hanging their bodies from the rafters. The Capitol had loved it; it was one of the highlights they showed regularly, along with Miriam's final battle against a pair of older, stronger tributes who thought she had been killed in an earlier fight. Now that he thought about it, Three's Victors _did_ tend to have a flair for the dramatic.

"Like me," Percival agreed. "I did what I had to in order to keep the audience interested. Which is exactly what you'll have to do in order to stand out – especially this year. It's a Quarter Quell, which means the audience will be expecting something _more_. Something spectacular." He smiled a little.

"So you'll just have to make sure you give it to them."

* * *

 **Lena Khatri, 16  
** **District Six**

She'd never imagined she would be the one sitting here.

Lena glanced around the table as she finished her second slice of pie. The dinner had been rather quiet, but maybe that was normal. She wasn't really sure what to expect. She'd never really thought that she would end up here. For years, she hadn't worried about the reaping, because it wasn't a well-kept secret that they were rigged. And she'd never done anything to make them want to send _her_ into the Games. She'd never stepped out of line. She'd done her best to obey, to be a good citizen.

And it hadn't been enough. Nothing _ever_ seemed to be enough. She'd tried her hardest for years to convince Lana to leave her gang, but her words had never been enough. She'd done her best in school and made it through every cut, only to end up here, in the Games. No matter what she did, no matter what she _tried_ to do, it hadn't been good enough to save her from this.

Finally, Duke broke the silence. "Not fun, is it. Knowing you shouldn't be here, knowing the only reason you're here is because a drunk moron chose your name instead of your sister's." He shook his head. "You wish it was her instead, don't you."

Lena could feel her face turning red. "No. No, I wouldn't wish that on my sister. I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

Duke shook his head. "No. Of course not. But if it _had_ to be one of you, if you had to choose who _deserved_ it more, who had less of a future back in District Six—"

"Duke," Nicodemus interrupted.

Duke leaned back in his chair. "It's true. Which of them has more of a chance at an actual life back in District Six? No, you know what? Forget that. Which one of them has more of a chance in the Games? A kid with actual experience on the streets or one who's had her nose in a book her whole life?"

Lena shook her head. "You don't know anything about—"

"Don't have to. It's obvious. I know which one of you I'd bet on any day."

"Then it's a good thing you're not her mentor," Nicodemus offered quietly. "Lena, how about you and I talk alone? I think we're all finished with dinner, anyway?" She followed him to the next car, and he shook his head. "Sorry about Duke. He's always a bit touchy after the reapings. Doesn't like to be reminded of why he got chosen for the Games in the first place."

Lena nodded. Maybe that made sense. And he certainly had every right to be frustrated. But did he really have to take it out on her? Didn't _she_ have a right to be frustrated, too? "So maybe he got reaped on purpose. But at least they _meant_ to pick him. I was just a mistake. He's right about Lana; she would have a better chance. But I—"

"But you didn't even try to let her take your place," Nicodemus pointed out. "Why?"

Why? Didn't he understand? "Because I don't want _her_ in the Games, either."

Nicodemus shrugged. "Maybe not. But it had to be one of you. And you just said she'd have a better chance."

"But that's still only a _chance_. Not a guarantee. Right now, I have a guarantee that she's alive."

"As long as she behaves herself while you're gone."

Lena's stomach turned at the thought. Or maybe it was the Capitol food. Maybe it was both. Nicodemus wasn't saying anything she hadn't already thought of. That if she didn't come back – if she _died_ – her sister might do something reckless that would put her own life in danger. She'd thought about the possibility, but she'd dismissed it as nervousness on her own part. But hearing someone else say it … that was different. That made it seem a bit more real. "Do you think she will?"

"You tell me. She's your sister."

Lena shook her head. "Doesn't mean I can predict what she's going to do. She's always been…"

"Reckless?"

"Spirited."

Nicodemus smiled a little. "Right. But you still haven't answered my question. It was obvious she wanted to take your place. Why didn't you let her? Pretend that _you_ were Lana and she was Lena? Even if the Peacekeepers tried to prove who was who by taking your blood, you're twins. Same genes. So why not let her?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do."

Lena's face flushed. "I was just being kind! Okay? That's all! She's my sister, and I didn't want to lose her, and if she died instead of me, I … I wouldn't be able to live with myself!"

There was silence for a moment, but then Nicodemus nodded. "There it is."

"What?"

"Compassion." He wheeled himself a little closer. "It's one of our greatest strengths, Lena … but not in the Games. Not in the arena."

"But you—"

"What?"

"You helped my sister, when the Peacekeepers caught her. You're still mentoring after all these years, even after … after what happened during the 41st Games. You tried to save that boy who was about to be executed."

"No."

"No?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "It was never about saving him. There was _never_ any chance of that. All I could do was give him a quicker death. A more merciful death. And that's what I did. Sometimes being kind … sometimes it doesn't mean doing the right thing. Sometimes it just means doing something not _quite_ as bad as what would happen otherwise."

Lena bit her lip. She could see where this was going. "And you're telling me this because … because that's what you think I'll have to do in the Games."

"That's what I _know_ you'll have to do in the Games, if you want to survive. Before the 41st Games, before all this…" He patted the arm of his wheelchair. "Before I was a mentor, I was a _tribute_. I killed, Lena, just like almost every Victor before me, and every other Victor since. I killed _six_ tributes. Six _kids_ , most of whom never did anything to me. Because that's what I had to do in order to make it back home. There's blood on my hands, Lena, as sure as anyone else's."

Lena shook her head. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm being _honest._ None of us made it out of the Games without blood on our hands, without guilt on our conscience. Eventually you'll have to accept that."

"I already have."

Nicodemus shook his head. "I don't think so. I think Duke was right about you and your sister. About who would have a better chance."

Lena clenched her fists tightly. "Fine! But she's not the one who's here. Maybe you and Duke wish she was. Maybe there's a part of _me_ that wishes she was. But she's not. _I'm_ the tribute you have, and you'll just have to deal with that."

She turned to go, but Nicodemus reached out and took her hand. "Feels better, doesn't it."

Lena turned, surprised. "What?"

"To say it out loud. To admit that maybe – just _maybe_ – there's a part of you that doesn't want to be kind. That doesn't want to be selfless and sacrificial. That there's some part of you that wishes your sister _was_ the one on this train … just like there's some part of me that wishes that I hadn't stepped in nine years ago, that I hadn't been kind, that none of this had ever happened." He shook his head. "But it happened. I _did_ step in. And you _are_ here. And all of us have to deal with that." He nodded towards the dining car. "Ready to go back?"

Lena stared. "You mean all of this was…"

"Duke's idea, but I agreed. We wanted to see what would happen if we pushed you. And you didn't disappoint. You're not your sister, but that might play in your favor yet." He squeezed her hand gently. "I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't have, but … it was going to come out sooner or later. Better now, here, where it's just the two of us, than in front of the whole Capitol, where your sister might have heard."

Lena opened her mouth to object, but nothing came out. He was right. She was glad Lana hadn't heard her words. And she was sorry she'd said them.

But that didn't make them any less true.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

He'd never imagined so much food in all his life.

Barlen helped himself to another serving of ham. How much had he eaten already? He wasn't even certain, but his plate looked as if it had been cleared several times. But he was still so hungry, and there was still so much _food_. Across the table, the others had finished their meals. A girl and two boys, and two adults. Two at a time, they began to peel away from the table. First the younger boy and the woman sitting beside him, then the girl and the man sitting beside her. The boy who was left couldn't help a smile when he saw Barlen had cleaned his plate again. "You must've been hungry."

"Starving," Barlen agreed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Maybe this morning? There had definitely been something important this morning. Did it have something to do with why he was on this train? Maybe. Probably. But something kept him from asking. A feeling that was almost … almost _dread._ As if he was certain, for some reason, that he didn't _want_ to know why he was here.

"You forgot again, didn't you." It wasn't a question, really. The older boy sounded absolutely certain that he'd forgotten something. Probably something important, from the sound of it.

Barlen nodded helplessly. "I think so?"

The older boy leaned back in his chair. "We can't keep doing this. We have to come up with something."

"Keep doing what?"

"Me, explaining everything. Again and again. I won't be able to do that for you once you're in the arena."

Arena. That was a familiar word. "The arena? You mean the Hunger Games?"

"Yes."

That explained why he was on a train. "I hope I don't have to kill you."

The other boy raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"In the Games. I hope I'm not the one who kills you."

The boy shook his head. "Barlen, I'm not going to be _in_ the Games with you."

"You're not a tribute?"

"No."

"So what are you doing here?"

"I'm your mentor. My name's Basil. I won the Games two years ago."

"How?"

Basil sighed. "By being clever. But that's clearly not going to work this time around."

Barlen glanced down at his plate. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't mean—" Basil cut himself off. He _had_ meant it. That much was obvious. "I'm sorry. Things just slip out sometimes. I just meant that you need a different strategy. That's all. And we definitely need to come up with something to help you remember … well, some of the more important things."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that you're _in_ the Games, for starters," Basil offered. "How many days you've been in the arena. How many tributes are left. Which direction the cornucopia is. Whether you have any allies – and _who_ they are. Things like that."

Allies. "Do you think I'll be able to find allies?" Barlen asked hopefully.

Basil fell silent. "I'm not sure. With thirty-five tributes in the arena, you should be able to find _someone_. But the real question is probably whether _you_ want to, whether you really think that's a good idea, whether you'll really be able to remember who's your ally and who isn't. Honestly, it might be simpler for you if you don't."

Barlen swallowed hard. Going into the arena was going to be hard enough; he couldn't imagine being in the Games _alone_. It would be simpler, maybe, but was that worth being alone in an arena full of tributes who were trying to kill him? If he had an ally, maybe they could look out for him, keep him safe.

But that would only last so long. He remembered that much. Only one person survived the Games. Only one person made it out of the arena alive.

But Basil had done it. "Did _you_ have allies?" Barlen asked.

Basil shook his head. "No. No, but not for lack of trying. I spent most of my time during training trying to find someone. Someone who could help me. Someone who would pull my weight along with their own. Someone I could take advantage of. But, strangely enough, no one wanted to help me."

Barlen cocked his head. "That's not strange, is it?"

Basil chuckled a little. "No, it's not … and that's my point. If you find someone who wants to be your ally, you should be pretty suspicious."

Suspicious. He wasn't good at being suspicious. "But what if they just want to help?"

"Then they're either suicidal or too selfless to care that—" He shook his head, cutting himself off. "Look, my point is that even if you _do_ manage to find allies, you can't count on their help forever. You could get separated. They could die. You could decide to part ways peacefully. Whatever the circumstances, you'll eventually need to be able to fend for yourself … which you only stand a chance of doing if you remember where you are and what you're supposed to be doing."

Barlen nodded a little. That made sense. "So what are you suggesting?"

Basil hesitated. "I … I'm not sure. But I might have an idea. Do you have a district token yet?"

Barlen shook his head. "I … I don't think so." Did he? He checked his pockets, but there wasn't anything in there. There was a hole in one. Maybe his district token had fallen out. Or maybe no one had bothered to give him one, knowing that he'd just lose it somewhere. "No. I don't have anything."

Basil produced a pen from his own pocket. "You do now."

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Write with it," Basil answered, completely straight-faced.

Barlen couldn't help a giggle. "Yeah, but write on _what_? We're only allowed to have one district token. I can't take a pen _and_ something else. Can I?"

"I don't think so," Basil agreed. "But you could write on your skin – or maybe there will be something in the arena for you to write on. Maybe I can get the sponsors to send you something."

Barlen perked up at that. "Really?"

"Maybe, if you last long enough."

"Do you think I will?"

"If you'd asked me at the reaping, I would have said no," Basil admitted. "Kid, you didn't even make it to the stage on your own. But now … I think you might surprise a few people."

Barlen smiled. "What changed your mind?"

"You did. This time, when I told you that you were going to be in the Games, you said you hoped you wouldn't have to kill me. Part of you registered that you would have to _kill_ in order to get through the Games. Maybe part of you would even have been willing to kill _me_ , if you'd had to." He smirked. "Not that you would have been able to."

Barlen looked away. _That_ was what had made Basil think that he had a chance? The fact that he'd been willing to consider the idea of killing someone? The fact that, for an instant, he'd been able to stomach the thought … did that really mean that he would actually be able to _do_ it when the time came? That he would actually be able to kill?

And why was Basil acting like that was something to be proud of?

Still, Barlen nodded. He had his mentor on his side, and maybe that was a good thing. He clicked the pen and wrote something on the inside of his palm. Basil leaned across the table, curious. "What'd you write?"

Barlen turned his arm so that Basil would be able to see what he had written. _You're in the Hunger Games._ "Good," Basil agreed. "Simple. Straightforward. But I wouldn't write on your palm. Too much sweat will wash it away quickly. Try the inside of your arm, instead."

Barlen nodded and carefully rewrote the message inside his arm, just above the wrist. "Better," Basil agreed. "Just make sure you leave room for anything else you might need to write later." He clapped Barlen on the shoulder.

"I expect you to last long enough to add to it."

* * *

" _Present fears are less than horrible imaginings."_


	18. Train Rides: Smothered in Surmise

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And here's our second batch of train rides. Not a whole lot to say here, except vote in the poll if you haven't yet. Once the train rides are over, I'll put a new one up.

* * *

 **Train Rides  
** **Smothered in Surmise**

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

She still couldn't quite believe it.

Klaudia wrung her hands as Carolina watched her silently, her mechanical eye seeming to stare right through Klaudia. It hadn't taken Mariska long to decide that she wanted to be mentored separately, and no one had objected. She and Lander were in the next car over, probably already deep into discussing strategy. Carolina, meanwhile, hadn't said two words since they'd left.

What was she waiting for?

Klaudia shifted uncomfortably. "So … what do we do now?"

Carolina nodded. "Took you long enough."

"What?"

"To take the initiative. Once you're in the arena, I won't be there with you, telling you what to do. You'll have to figure it out for yourself, and sometimes that means you'll have to think on your feet. You'll have to make split-second decisions that could cost you your life … or save it. You won't be able to just sit back and wait for instructions."

Klaudia could feel her face growing warm. "But I'm not in the arena yet."

"Good thing, too," Carolina agreed. "Because by the time you asked 'What do we do now?' you'd probably be dead. The Games aren't about what _I_ think you should do. They're about what _your_ gut is telling you to do in that moment." She leaned back a little in her chair. "So what's your gut telling you now?"

"I…" She wasn't sure. "I'm hungry?"

"Fair enough." Carolina passed her a basket of rolls from the table beside her. "That's an important priority once you're in the Games, too. But hunger can make people do stupid things. Reckless things."

"Like rushing into the bloodbath?"

Carolina nodded. "For starters, yes."

"Did you?"

Carolina chuckled. "Me? Not a chance. My allies and I got out of there as quickly as we could. It wasn't worth the risk, and there weren't even that many Careers my year. Now … no, I wouldn't suggest it. Anything you can get at the cornucopia at the beginning, you can find later, or steal from someone who made it out. It's just not worth the risk, especially now. This year, with _this_ many tributes, it's better to play it safe at the start."

"At the start?"

"Even with this many tributes, you won't be able to stay hidden forever. Eventually, you'll have to take risks. But not right away. As long as you don't do anything to draw attention to yourself, you should be able to avoid the action at the start."

"Even after what Austen did?" Klaudia asked hesitantly. When she had come to the Justice Building, Carolina had seemed to be suggesting that Austen's actions at the reaping had painted a target on their backs. Would she really be able to avoid that?

"I think so," Carolina answered. "Things happen during the reaping. Things that people do in the heat of the moment. Unless they develop into more, the Capitol doesn't usually hold it against the tributes. As long as _you_ don't seem rebellious, as long as _you're_ not threatening to derail the Games, you should be fine. Just do what you're supposed to during training, during the interviews, and no one will care if you just run away during the bloodbath. Plenty of tributes do that." She smirked. "Hell, even _Lander_ did."

"Really?"

"Really. He was just as scared as the rest of us. No one wants to die, Klaudia, and the Games bring out the worst fears in all of us. We all want to live, and we're all willing to do terrible things – sometimes unspeakable things – in order to survive."

"Even you?" She couldn't imagine the older woman sitting in front of her doing anything unspeakable, even in the name of survival. Sure, she'd been a bit harsh when she'd come to the Justice Building, but that was only because she'd been trying to help her. Trying to protect Austen.

Wasn't it?

Carolina hesitated a moment before answering. But only a moment. "Even me," she confirmed. "I pushed one of my allies down while we were running from a mutt and left her for dead. I killed a girl I found beside a river after promising to help fix her broken leg. The boy who did _this_ to me?" She waved her hand towards her mechanical eye. "I tied him to a tree and let the mutts devour him. During the finale, I lured a girl into the path of a giant mutt and let it step on her. Any of those things would have been considered inhuman outside the arena. But the Games have different rules. _One_ rule. Survive. Everything else is secondary."

Klaudia swallowed hard, trying to picture herself doing _any_ of those things. Killing someone she had promised to help. Leaving an ally for dead. "How do you…?" she started, but stopped herself. _How do you live with it?_ That was what she'd wanted to ask. _How do you sleep? How do you do this year after year?_

Carolina leaned forward a little. "There isn't a good answer to that. And it's not what you need to worry about right now. Once you get through the Games, _then_ you can worry about how you're going to live with it. If you think about that now, it'll eat you up. You'll hesitate. You'll freeze. You'll _think_ too much when you need to act, instead." She shook her head. "That was the hardest thing for me, really. Learning _not_ to think. I made a lot of mistakes. But I survived. That's the important thing. That's _always_ the important thing."

Klaudia nodded along. But her stomach was churning. When she put it like that – when she said she had _survived_ – it didn't sound so bad. But in order for her to survive, twenty-three other tributes had died. And even more would have to die if Klaudia wanted to live. "I don't know if I can do that," she whispered.

Carolina couldn't help a smile. "I'd be more worried if you were sure you could."

"What do you mean?"

"The ones who go into the Games certain that they have what it takes, certain that they know exactly what they're doing, convinced they're the one who's going to win – _those_ are the ones who worry me. Those are the tributes who make careless mistakes because they just _know_ it's going to work out. You already know better. That's good."

"It is?" Did she really believe that? Or was she just trying to say something positive because she had to? Because she was her mentor? Certainly mentors had to pretend that their tributes had a chance of winning, even if they didn't. Was that what Carolina was doing?

Maybe. But maybe, for now, that was good enough. It was nice to hear something kind, even if she didn't completely mean it. "Thank you," Klaudia said softly.

"You're welcome. Now let's get some dinner."

Klaudia's eyes widened. "I thought _this_ was dinner." She nodded towards the rolls that Carolina had passed her earlier. They'd been more than enough to fill her stomach. "Do you mean there's more?"

"Always. There's always more. One of the few nice things about this whole mess." Carolina stood up slowly and headed for the next car. "Unless you're not hungry," she realized once she'd made it halfway to the door. "Sometimes the reaping is enough to ruin people's appetite. If you don't want to eat—"

Klaudia nearly burst out laughing. She couldn't imagine _not_ wanting to eat. "I'm coming," she insisted, quickly joining Carolina. Sure enough, the table in the next car was piled high with more food than Klaudia would have imagined possible. Lander, Mariska, and Kit were already eating. Lander chuckled a little, adjusting the sling around his arm. "Took you long enough to join us. You're lucky we saved anything for you. Sit down."

Klaudia quickly took a seat. "I'm sorry about…" She nodded towards Lander's arm. "What happened at the reaping."

Lander shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry about. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sure Care's already told you to keep your mouth shut about it once we get to the Capitol. Just let the audience forget about it, and they probably will. Give them something else to focus on."

Klaudia nodded obediently. But she didn't want to forget. She didn't want to forget that Austen had been willing to fight for her. Now she would have to do the same if she wanted to get back to him.

She just hoped she could be as brave.

* * *

 **Orphelia Mykonos, 17  
** **District Twelve**

She wished she felt as brave as the others seemed.

Orphelia swallowed another bite of her chicken, but the food she had already eaten felt like it might come back up at any moment. Beside her, David didn't seem to be having any trouble keeping his food down. Across the table, both Brennan and Kyra were eating silently. No one seemed to want to say anything – not yet. Maybe they were all thinking the same thing she was. Maybe they all feared that saying something would make all of this seem more real.

Or maybe it was her. Maybe Kyra and David didn't want to start talking about strategy while she was still around. After all, since there were two mentors now, she and David could split up and be mentored separately. Maybe Brennan was waiting for the other two to leave so that they could talk in private. But what would he want to say that he couldn't say in front of the others? It wasn't as if he had some secret to winning the Games that Kyra didn't know. He had been _her_ mentor, after all. Whatever advice Kyra had to give, she had probably learned from him.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to be too careful. She needed all the help she could get, and if there was something that Brennan didn't want the others to hear, that was up to him. She certainly didn't want to get on his bad side by asking for advice too early. But there was a part of her that was _itching_ to break the silence. Even if he didn't want to talk about strategy yet, there must be _something_ they could talk about without jeopardizing whatever plan he might have for the Games.

"Orphelia?" David asked, and, from the tone in his voice, it hadn't been the first time.

Orphelia nearly jumped. "What?"

"I asked if you could pass the butter."

Orphelia quickly reached for the butter. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Brennan took the butter and handed it to David. "About what?"

Orphelia hesitated. "About whether you two were planning to mentor us together or separately."

Brennan couldn't hide a smile. "You could have just asked."

She could have. "So what do you think?"

"I think we should work together for now," David jumped in before she could answer.

Brennan nodded. "And why would that be?"

David froze. "Is this a test?"

Brennan smirked. "Of sorts. Your answer to that might affect whether Orphelia wants to be mentored with _you_. If she thinks you want to gather information to use against her—"

"That's not what I meant!" David interrupted.

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Brennan asked.

"I…" David hesitated. "I meant that I think you both would have good advice – and that you might have some different suggestions that could help us." He turned to Kyra. "Your Games were just last year. That gives you a different perspective than someone who's been doing this for years. And you." He nodded to Brennan. "You're the only person who's survived a Quarter Quell. And you've been mentoring a lot longer. You probably have some ideas that Kyra wouldn't think of just because she hasn't had as much experience. So … I'd like to learn from both of you, if…" He glanced over at Orphelia. "If that's all right with you."

Orphelia looked over at Brennan, then Kyra, then back to David. What he was saying made sense, now that he put it like that. And if she decided later that she wanted to talk to Brennan alone, she could always change her mind. "Sounds good to me," she agreed.

Brennan nodded. "All right, then. You're right about things being different because it's a Quarter Quell. The twist itself doesn't have much of an effect on District Twelve, since it's still just the two of you, but that doesn't mean we're exempt from whatever else the Gamemakers might have in store. I'm sure there will be some twists and turns that weren't mentioned in the twist."

Orphelia nodded a little. That made sense. The purpose of the Quell, after all, was to remind them of the rebellion – not just the miniature rebellion during the 41st Games, but the war that had happened fifty years ago. Maybe Twelve hadn't participated in the events of the Games nine years ago, but they had been part of the larger rebellion. The Capitol wasn't about to let them off the hook for that. "So what do we do?"

"For now? The same thing you would any other year. You behave yourselves during the chariot rides. You do what your stylists tell you to do. You train. You start thinking about what sort of people you might want as allies – if you _want_ allies at all. And you do your best not to make targets out of yourselves."

"Targets for who?" David asked. "There aren't going to be as many Careers this year, at least. That's a good thing."

"In some ways," Brennan agreed.

"What do you mean?" Orphelia asked. How could having fewer Careers be a bad thing?

"Careers are certainly dangerous," Brennan explained, "but there's a downside to everything. The audience – and the Gamemakers – assume that the Careers are going to go out hunting for other tributes, so they don't have to put as much effort into trying to force tributes together. With fewer Careers this year, that might change. If there aren't enough tributes interacting, the Gamemakers might decide to intervene."

"Is that what happened during your Games?" Orphelia asked. There hadn't been any volunteers allowed during the last Quarter Quell, either. Had that meant there were no Careers?

Brennan nodded. "The Gamemakers forced some of us together, yes. But some of us did that on our own. Some of us decided to take the initiative, to go out and hunt for other tributes and for supplies."

"And you?"

"There were four of us in my alliance at the start. It didn't take us long to reach the edge of the arena – the control room of the space station. There was a map there with lights to represent the other tributes. After realizing we weren't going to just stumble across food and water, the four of us decided to go looking for other tributes, in the hope that maybe they had found something that we would be able to steal. Grace and I found the pair from Seven. Ambushed them. Took their supplies. They fought back, and … we killed them."

David's eyes widened. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. They put up a fight, but we were hungry. Desperate. That makes people do things … things they wouldn't ordinarily dream of doing. That's the worst part of the Games, really. It's easy for us to point at the Careers and say that we would never do that, that we would never volunteer to kill people for sport … but the Careers aren't the only ones who kill. The Games existed for years before Career training became popular. If for some reason there could be no Careers … the Games would still go on. Tributes would still kill each other, because that's what people _do_ when they're told the only choice is kill or be killed. Our survival instinct is too strong for us to do anything else."

Orphelia nodded. What he was saying made sense, but she still had a hard time picturing it. She still couldn't imagine him stalking and killing another tribute, still couldn't picture him stabbing his district partner or choking the life out of his remaining opponent in the finale. And she certainly couldn't picture _herself_ doing any of those things.

But he had. Brennan had survived because he'd been willing to do all of those things. He clearly hadn't been happy about it, but he had done it, nonetheless. And she would have to be willing to do the same, if she wanted to make it home to her family. If she wanted to survive, she would have to be willing to do _anything_.

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

He would have traded anything to be somewhere else.

Skyton reached into his pocket, his hand closing around Fifa's bell as the last of the reapings continued to play. District Eleven. District Twelve. Only three tributes from Eleven, and two from Twelve. But that was still too many. Far too many. He'd lost track of all the names and faces quite a few districts ago. From the looks on their faces, so had Glenn, Presley, and Connor. They all seemed just as relieved when the tape finally stopped.

Connor was the first to break the silence. "So what do you think?"

"I think we have a pretty good chance," Presley answered hopefully. "Both of you are older and stronger than some of the other tributes. Not many Careers this year, so that might play in our favor. Neither of you really made much of an impression during the reaping, so the others don't really have a reason to target you."

Right. They hadn't made much of an impression. Maybe she was trying to be polite about it. Maybe she was trying to gloss over the fact that they had both been crying. Or maybe she was simply hoping that wouldn't be as detrimental as it might have been in other years. That since there weren't as many Careers, they might not be as quick to target anyone who seemed weak during the reaping, as long as they put on a good enough show afterwards.

Skyton turned the bell over in his hand, accidentally jingling it a little bit. "What've you got there?" Presley asked.

Skyton pulled it out. "It's a bell. My district token. It belongs to one of my cows."

Presley smiled a little. "I brought some sheep's wool during my Games."

"Really?"

"Really. Reminded me of what I wanted to get back to at home."

"Not your family?"

Presley smirked. "Not _yours_?"

She had a point. He'd taken the bell without question when Lucy had offered it. Sure, it reminded him of Fifa, but it also reminded him of his sister. "Both," Skyton agreed, turning the bell over. "It reminds me of both."

Presley nodded. "Then it's your job to do your best to get back to both of them. I'm not going to sit here and pretend it's going to be easy, but…"

Skyton couldn't hold back a little chuckle. She was right about that. It certainly wasn't going to be easy. No matter how much his family might want to believe that he had a chance, no matter how much his mentors might want to believe it, no matter how much _he_ might want to pretend, the fact was that there wasn't much of a chance. He wouldn't be coming back from the Games. Not alive, at least. And the less time he wasted pretending otherwise, the better.

Presley, however, ignored his chuckle. "So, you two. What do you think of being coached together – at least for a little while?"

Immediately, Connor nodded. "I think that's a good idea. What do you think, Skyton?"

"I … I guess."

Connor beamed. "Great. In fact, I'd be willing to work together in the arena, too … if that's all right with you."

"You mean like … like allies?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Skyton shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We don't even know anything about each other – or about the other tributes."

Connor shrugged. "If you don't want to, I understand. I just thought…"

"What?"

Connor shook his head. "Look, we didn't exactly make a great impression at the reaping. No one is going to notice District Ten. On our own, what sort of allies are we going to be able to find? Maybe one or two others who don't get recruited by someone stronger, someone older, someone who made a better impression. But if there are _two_ of us … if we're already working together, and if we seem strong enough _together,_ other people might want to join _us_."

Skyton nodded a little. That made sense. And it wasn't as if he was likely to get a better offer; Connor was right about that. Maybe if they gave the impression that they were already a strong pair of tributes working together, others would be attracted to that.

Maybe. Or it might deter other people from joining up with them if they appeared to be too close of an alliance early on. Anyone joining the two of them would know right away that they were the outsiders, that if it came down to it, the boys from District Ten would choose each other over their other allies. Wouldn't they?

Skyton picked at the food that was left on his plate. Connor seemed to be expecting an answer right away. He wanted time to think. He wanted time to consider other options. But did that mean that Connor would be suspicious? Maybe he wouldn't want to work together if it seemed like he was too reluctant.

Finally, Skyton nodded. "Okay. Let's do it. Allies."

Connor clapped him on the back. "Perfect! You won't regret it."

Skyton tried to smile. He hoped that was true. But part of him was already wondering if he'd made a mistake.

 _Stop it_. If it turned out to be a mistake, he could always leave once the Games started. With the sort of confusion that normally ensued during the bloodbath, no one would think it was unusual if he got separated from Connor. If their alliance turned out to be a terrible idea, he could always break it off then, and no one would be the wiser. Even Connor probably wouldn't think anything of it. Alliances got separated during the bloodbath all the time.

Skyton swallowed hard. That was what had happened the year before. Amber, one of the girls from their district, had gotten separated from her ally during the bloodbath. Amber had rushed into the bloodbath to try to gather supplies while her ally had run away. When they'd found each other later, Amber had been quick to share the weapons she'd gathered from the cornucopia … and had been repaid with a knife in her throat. Her ally, the little girl from Twelve, had gone on to win the Games.

Skyton drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He didn't want that to happen to him. If he got separated from Connor and then they ran into each other later, would Connor kill him? Maybe it would be better to just stay with him, even if the alliance didn't turn out to be such a good move. Or maybe he was blowing things out of proportion. Maybe it would be just fine.

No. No, whatever else happened, it wasn't going to be 'just fine.' Nothing would ever be just fine again. He was in the Hunger Games. He was a tribute. And he was probably going to die, whether by Connor's hand or by someone else's. So maybe it didn't matter much _what_ he did, if the same thing was going to happen in the end.

"Skyton?"

Skyton practically jumped out of his chair. How long had Presley been calling his name? "Sorry," he immediately apologized. "I was just thinking."

Presley nodded. "That happens."

It was probably supposed to be funny, but Skyton could feel his face turning red. Sure, it didn't usually matter if he started tuning everyone else out and got wrapped up in his own thoughts. But if that happened during the Games, anything could happen. He could have a knife in his back before he even realized what was happening.

Maybe that would be better.

Just then, Glenn emerged from behind the counter. When had he left? Skyton shook the thought from his head at the sight of the plate full of desserts that Glenn was carrying. "I don't know if anyone's still hungry, but…"

Glenn didn't even get to finish the sentence before Connor jumped up and helped himself to one of the cupcakes. Skyton quickly followed, and even Presley was quick to grab herself a slice of pie. Whatever else might be said about the Capitol, they certainly had excellent food. They'd even had a hearty selection of fruits and vegetables, something that was usually lacking in District Ten. But, to his surprise, he _was_ still hungry, even after scarfing down several cookies and a piece of cake. Maybe it was some sort of sick joke, that they got to spend a few days before the _Hunger_ Games eating their fill of the Capitol's finest food. If it _was_ a joke, it wasn't a very funny one.

But that didn't stop him from eating.

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18  
** **District Four**

They certainly seemed to have made the right choice.

Emmett leaned back in his chair. It hadn't taken long for Kalypso to decide that it would be a good idea to mentor him separately from the other tributes. Not that any of the others had seemed particularly interested in an alliance. The two girls were both younger and frightened, and the boy … well, Emmett wasn't entirely sure what to make of him yet. Of course, they were probably thinking the same thing about him – wondering what to make of his reaction at the reaping. Wondering whether he would join up with the rest of the Career pack or go it alone.

Kalypso seemed to be wondering the same thing. She'd been oddly silent while they were watching the tape of the reapings together. "I guess I expected a few more Careers," she admitted at last. "Maybe a couple of them have training, but—"

"But not many," Emmett agreed. "Certainly not enough to form a full pack of well-trained Careers." He shook his head. "So what does that mean for me?"

"It means you have options," Kalypso reasoned. "It means that if you're interested in joining up with the pack, they'll probably let you. You may even be one of the stronger members, judging from the reaping. But it also means that if you decide _not_ to join the pack, you'll still be on their radar. Physically, you're one of the stronger tributes in the Games. That might make you a target if you part ways with the main pack."

"So you think I should join them?"

"I think if you decide _not_ to, you should lie low. Don't go out and recruit another large alliance to try to counter the other Careers or anything. And don't do anything reckless during training."

Emmett nodded. "So it's either the Career pack or no one."

"I didn't say that. But if you want allies outside the pack, I certainly wouldn't look for a large group."

He hadn't been planning on looking for a large group. He hadn't really been _planning_ on looking for anyone, especially not the other Careers. That was exactly the sort of thing he'd left behind when he'd decided to quit training. Even when he'd been training, he'd never been much good with the 'team' aspect of Career training. He wasn't a people person. He never had been. And he'd finally stopped pretending otherwise.

But even he couldn't deny how useful allies were in the Games. Of the Victors so far, how many of them had won without any allies at all? He wasn't sure off the top of his head, but it wasn't many. Certainly not any of the Victors from Four. Imalia had had allies, although only some of them had been Careers. Bierce had been the leader of his pack. Kalypso, Naomi, and even Misha had been integral members of the Career pack. Mags…

Mags hadn't had allies, now that he thought of it. But that had been more than forty years ago, before the Career pack had become an almost standard part of the Games. The audience these days _expected_ to see a pack, and they expected tributes with training to be part of that pack. If he refused to join, would they write him off? Would they assume he hadn't had any training at all?

Maybe they would. And maybe they wouldn't be entirely wrong. He hadn't trained for years, after all. How much did he really remember? How much would come back to him once he was in the arena? Enough to make him a valuable member of the pack? Or would he be pegged as an outsider even if he tried to join them? Would they consider him one of the more expendable members of the pack? If that was the case, maybe it was better not to join the other Careers at all.

Or maybe … maybe the pack was the best place to hide. There were few enough Careers this year, he wouldn't be rejected simply because they had other, better options. Maybe if he could convince them that he had enough training, they would accept him as long as he didn't do anything to make them think otherwise. Then once they were in the arena, he could reap the benefits of being part of the pack – better access to supplies, more sponsors, more people to keep watch at night – without really having to prove himself.

But how long would that really last?

"You were part of the Career pack," Emmett said at last. "Did you ever think about not joining them?"

Kalypso shook her head. "No. No, not really. But it's also important to know when to leave, when to abandon a plan that clearly isn't working out. On our third day in the arena, it was already clear that the Games were moving a bit too slowly. Our pack hadn't found anyone all day. That night, I thought it was time to spice things up a bit. They needed either me or my district partner to help them navigate the harbor. We were both useful … but they didn't need _both_ of us. So I killed him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Emmett nodded a little. He could picture that. After training with her all those years ago, she certainly didn't seem like the sort to get sentimental, the sort to get attached – especially to someone she knew would have to die eventually. He'd always liked that about her. But he'd forgotten that the boy she'd killed had been her district partner, because the rest of the Careers had died pretty quickly after that.

"And you probably know the rest," Kalypso continued.

He did. As soon as the blood from her knife had hit the deck of the ship, the rigging had come to life, attacking the Careers, trapping them, strangling them. Kalypso had dove into the sea; she hadn't had time to save any of the others. Or maybe she simply hadn't _wanted_ to. Hadn't seen the point in trying to save them when it was more important to save herself.

Emmett nodded. "So what you're trying to say is, even if I decide to join the Career pack, don't get too attached."

Kalypso smirked. "You were always pretty quick to catch on. But yes, and that's true whether you end up joining the Careers or whether you find other allies. You can't let any of them get too close to you."

"I don't think I'll have to worry about that."

"That's easy to _say_ ," Kalypso pointed out. "It's harder when you're actually in the Games. When you're with someone all day, all night, when you have to trust them at least enough to let them keep watch, when you eat together, hunt together … it's not like the academy was – back when we had one. It's not like training."

"Yeah," Emmett agreed. "This time no one'll care if I get too close to killing someone."

"Fair point." Kalypso poured herself another glass of juice. "There won't be anyone to hold you back. But that also means there won't be anyone to stop you if you lose control. If you get too emotional – for better or worse – it's easier to become distracted. To lose focus. If you get too angry, too out of control, it might be harder to find your way back."

"And if I don't want to?"

Kalypso couldn't help a smile. "You'll eventually want to. Eventually, the Games end. They have to. And if you win this thing … you want to make sure that you actually come back, that you don't lose yourself in that arena."

Emmett nodded. Maybe that made sense. For her. For the other Victors. But if he _did_ lose control, the same way he had before he'd quit training, the same way he had when Aria had died … when he'd killed her … if that happened, would he really _want_ to come back?

Would he really _want_ to survive?

* * *

" _Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that function is smothered in surmise."_


	19. Train Rides: What is Not

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And here's the last of our train ride chapters. Just a friendly reminder to vote in the poll if you haven't yet; a new one will be up next chapter.

* * *

 **Train Rides  
** **What is Not**

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18  
** **District Two**

He clearly wasn't going to help her.

Mae glared across the table at Mortimer as he continued eating his breakfast. He hadn't said more than two words to her since they'd boarded the train. The others had already split off and left, just as they had after dinner the day before. Etora and Darian seemed to be working together – and probably with the rest of the Careers, as well. They had left along with Tosh and Balthasar as soon as they'd finished eating. Margo and Harriet had left soon after, while Leo and Vester hadn't bothered coming to join them at all.

Maybe that, at least, was for the best. Leo had completely broken down at the reaping, after all, and from the little she'd seen in passing since then, it wasn't just a brief moment of panic. If he wasn't cut out for the Games, maybe it was better that she knew that now. That way, she wouldn't be surprised if – no, _when_ – he died.

As for Mortimer, he was still pretending to eat his breakfast. He'd finished at least fifteen minutes ago, but had continued to pick at what was left, as if he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to say to a tribute who wasn't a Career. Mae could feel her face growing redder by the minute. Maybe she wasn't the tribute he would have wanted, but that didn't give him the right to sulk and ignore her. _She_ was the one who was going to be fighting for her life in a few days. If _anyone_ had the right to be in a bad mood, it was her.

Mae leaned in towards the table. "Look, if you're not going to help me, just say so now – while I still have time to find someone else who might."

Mortimer scoffed. "Like who?"

Mae shrugged. "Maybe one of the other mentors wouldn't mind having two tributes. Maybe Vester would like to have a tribute who actually has a shot. Hell, Carenza might be willing to pitch in if you're not up to it." The escort certainly wouldn't be her first choice for a viable adviser, but if Mortimer was going to abandon her…

Mortimer shook his head. "Look, it's not like I don't _want_ to help you. Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to prove that even District Two's non-Careers are better than whatever else any other district has to offer. But the fact is that I'm not going to be much help to you. I'm used to having tributes who are a bit more … prepared."

Mae shook her head. "So that's your secret? You don't actually have any advice to give? You just hope that your tributes have it all figured out already?"

Mortimer actually chuckled a little. "Trying to bait me won't work, kid. If it's advice you want, it's advice you'll get … but you won't like it."

"Try me."

"All right. First of all, don't even bother trying to join up with the Career pack. You're not up to it."

"I could have told you that."

"They might ask you. You don't have any training – or, at least, I'm assuming you don't – but they might not make that assumption. You're older. Older than most of the other tributes from Career districts. So if they ask you … say no. But try to do it _without_ offending them if you can."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Search me."

"Well, you're a lot of help."

"Manners were never really my strong suit. But if you make it clear that you're refusing because you don't think you'd cut it as a member of the pack – and if the way you're acting during training reflects that – then there shouldn't be any hard feelings, and they'll realize they made a mistake when they assumed you had training."

"What makes you so sure I don't?"

Mortimer perked up a little at that. "Do you?"

"Only a little," Mae admitted. "My ex taught me to throw knives in his spare time. I got pretty good at it, but that was a while ago."

"Your ex?"

"Tyson Bort."

Mortimer raised an eyebrow. "Ah."

"You remember him?"

"Vaguely."

Mae shook her head. "He always said he was one of your favorites, that you were sure to pick him to volunteer."

"Then he's an idiot," Mortimer concluded. "Even if I _had_ favorites, that wouldn't factor into who gets to volunteer. The volunteers are whoever's the best prepared, whoever's _ready_ for the Games. Whoever has the skills it's going to take to win, not who I personally consider my _favorite._ "

"And would he have been? The best prepared, I mean. Would you have picked him?"

"We hadn't made our decision yet – purposely, in case something went wrong with the Quell. We didn't want to disappoint whoever we ended up choosing. But no, he probably wasn't one I would have considered."

Mae relaxed a little. There was some satisfaction there, at least. Tyson wouldn't have been Mortimer's choice for the Games. Which probably meant that he wouldn't have been able to win, even if he'd had the opportunity.

Mortimer leaned forward a little. "But this isn't about him. This is about you. How much did you learn from him?"

"Not enough for you to consider me Career material, I'm sure. But enough that I might be able to hit a target pretty accurately, if I still remember—"

"I'm sure you remember enough for it to be useful," Mortimer interrupted, to her surprise. "That's not really the sort of thing you forget. But you're right about that not being enough to make you a Career. Unless there are a lot of other skills you're hiding, I still wouldn't advise teaming up with the rest of the Career pack. Still, it might be enough to give you an edge over someone who doesn't have any training at all."

Mae couldn't help a smile. "See? This isn't so bad, after all."

Mortimer shook his head. "You're definitely not going to like my next piece of advice."

Mae shrugged. "Shoot."

"I'm sure you noticed when you watched the reapings, but there's another girl named Mae."

"The little girl from District One," Mae agreed. "What about it?"

"It's going to be a bit confusing for the Capitolites."

Mae shrugged. "If they can't deal with two tributes having the same name, then they should just eliminate everyone with a duplicate name from the reaping bowl. Problem solved."

Mortimer chuckled. "Believe me, there are plenty of people who would like that … but that wasn't my point. You might want to consider going by your full name in the Capitol to avoid confusion. You wouldn't want the sponsors accidentally sending a gift to the wrong Mae."

"You think I'm going to get sponsors?"

"That's not the point."

Of course it wasn't. Mae leaned back in her chair. Mortimer was right; she certainly didn't like the advice. No one called her by her full name; even her parents had eventually given in and started calling her Mae instead of Annemae. If she was going to be fighting for her life – and quite possibly _dying_ … if there was a chance that these were her last few days, she didn't want to spend them going by some other name – a name that she wasn't used to using.

Mae shook her head. "No."

"That's it? No? You're not even going to think about it?"

"I don't need to. If I can deal with being picked for a death match, then they can deal with having two Maes. Or maybe the other one will decide to go by some nickname. But I'm not going to."

Mortimer sighed. "Okay."

"Okay?" She hadn't expected him to give in that easily.

Mortimer shrugged. "Look, if it's that important to you, it's not worth fighting over. I just thought it might be a little thing you could do to make things easier for yourself. But if it's that big of a deal—"

"It is." She couldn't explain exactly why, but at least he was willing to accept that.

"Then we might as well move on to more important things," Mortimer reasoned. "No point fighting over something trivial when there are much more important things we could be disagreeing on." He finally cracked a smile. "Why don't we head to one of the other cars? This might take a while."

"Why?"

"I have some more advice you're not going to like."

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

This wasn't really what he'd been expecting.

Elliot shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he, Macauley, Oliver, and Sabine sat around the table. He wasn't used to seeing them without any of the others – Harakuise, Camden, Jai. They always seemed like so much of a … a family, really. He had assumed that they would be working together for a little while, at least.

Maybe that was a silly thing to assume. The younger boy, Retro, clearly wasn't a Career, and the older boy seemed to have already given up. If they weren't even interested in being part of the Career pack, there was no real reason for them to be mentored together. Still, knowing that the others were somewhere else on the same train – that they simply had no interest in being his allies – was an odd feeling.

"Don't worry; you'll have plenty of people around soon enough," Oliver assured him, as if he knew what Elliot had been thinking. "From the look of the reaping, we'll still have a decent-sized Career pack, but you two should still be able to work your way in, if you're interested."

Macauley immediately nodded. "Of course we're interested. Why wouldn't we be?"

Elliot shrugged. "Speak for yourself. I don't really have as much training as you."

"But you still have _some_ ," Oliver pointed out. "That already puts you ahead of most of the other tributes in the arena. And, from the look of it, you'll be two of the older members of the pack … again, _if_ that's what you want."

Elliot hesitated. _Was_ that what he wanted. It was certainly what Garnet would have wanted. Maybe even what Garnet would have wanted for him. Would his friend have been happy for him? Glad to see him have a chance at the Games?

No. No, probably not. He would understand that this wasn't really what Elliot wanted. Garnet had been nothing but supportive when he'd decided to stop training. Garnet had wanted to be in the Games; Elliot hadn't. They had always been different, but they hadn't let that separate them.

"Elliot?"

Elliot's attention snapped back to the moment. "Sorry," he apologized, blushing a little. "What were you saying?"

Oliver smiled. "It's okay. Macauley was just saying that—"

His district partner shook her head. "Just Mac is fine."

"Mac it is, then," Oliver agreed. "Mac was just saying that it would be better to decide sooner rather than later about whether you want to be part of the pack. Since there are two of you, you have a good chance of the other Careers accepting both of you if you make it clear that you're already working together. If not … well, it's probably best to know sooner."

That made sense. "Okay," Elliot agreed. "Let's do it."

Mac clapped him on the back. "You won't regret it."

"I hope not." He turned to Oliver and Sabine. "Does that mean you'll be mentoring us together?"

Oliver nodded. "Unless there's some reason why we shouldn't."

Mac shook her head. "None that I know of. Elliot?"

"Fine with me."

Sabine smiled a little. "My, we're just a nice, easygoing bunch, aren't we."

Oliver smirked. "My kind of tributes. That sort of flexibility – it'll help you a lot in the arena. There's no telling what the Gamemakers might have in store for a Quarter Quell. You'll have to be ready to deal with whatever they might have planned." He leaned back in his chair. "Mind you, _some_ of their surprises could be a lot of fun. If you get a chance to ride a giant prairie dog, for example, take it."

Elliot chuckled. "You don't think they'd use the same mutts they've used before, do you?"

Oliver shook his head. "I doubt it. But we do have something of a reputation to keep up. Eagles. Tracker jackers. Prairie dogs. The audience is used to seeing tributes from District Five use mutts to their advantage, so if you get the chance to, go for it. The Gamemakers will probably go along with it."

" _Probably_ ," Sabine qualified. "Trust your gut. If your gut is telling you not to go near a mutt, then you get the hell away from it. Not everyone gets as lucky as Oliver here. _Some_ of us had scarecrow mutts in our Games. Not as easy to tame."

Oliver gave her a playful punch. "You think taming a prairie dog is _easy_?"

"It's easier to tame something that's not trying to stab you with a pitchfork," Sabine reasoned.

Elliot giggled. This was more like it. This was why he'd taken up training in the first place. The Victors – and especially Oliver – had made it look like so much _fun_. It was almost enough to make him forget just how dangerous the Games really were.

Almost.

"So what do you think it'll be this year?" Mac asked. "Mutts that we can use or mutts that are just going to go for the kill?"

Sabine shook her head. "Hard to say. But if the last Quarter Quell is anything to go by, they'll mostly use the mutts to drive you together. So if you're doing enough of that on your own, it shouldn't be too much of a problem. There were … what? Spider mutts in the last Quarter Quell?"

"Something like spiders," Oliver agreed. "And some sort of singing … something. There were some weird mutts that year."

Sabine chuckled. "I think they were trying to outdo the previous years. Since it was a Quell and all. So you might get something similar this year. Not many mutts last year."

There hadn't been – which may have been part of why last year's Games had lasted so long. The hospital had been almost completely devoid of mutts, aside from some rats that had been wandering the halls and other creatures living in the filth. Flies. Maggots. It had certainly been disgusting, but he didn't remember any of the tributes being _killed_ by mutts.

Come to think of it, the previous year hadn't had any particularly exciting mutts, either. There had been oversized ants in the giant anthill, but they hadn't had a chance to do much of anything before Basil had collapsed the entire anthill. And the year before that, mutts hadn't done much of anything until the finale, when they'd driven Duke and his last opponent together.

Maybe that meant they were due for some flashier mutts this year. And if so, maybe he and Mac could use that to their advantage. Oliver was right that the audience was used to seeing tributes from District Five take advantage of mutts – from Harakuise riding a giant eagle out of the arena following the finale to Adalyn causing chaos during the bloodbath by smashing every hive she could find in her apiary arena, leading to the shortest Hunger Games yet.

Maybe _that_ was why the Gamemakers had been shying away from using mutts too much. It was one thing to use them to drive tributes together – or to provide transportation, as the prairie dogs had allowed Oliver to do. It was quite another for mutts to kill – or aid in killing – the majority of the tributes. That wasn't the point of the Games, after all. The point of the Games was for them to kill _each other_.

And this year, certainly, of all years, they would want to showcase what the _tributes_ could do. What they _would_ do when they were pushed to their limits. That was what the Quells were for – a reminder that the horrors of the Games were caused by the districts' own actions.

Elliot shook the thought from his head as he turned his attention back to the conversation. That didn't matter right now. Trying to predict what the mutts might be, or what the Gamemakers might do … there wasn't much point at the moment. Whatever the Gamemakers had in store, they would find out soon enough.

For now, he was probably happier not knowing.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

Maybe this wasn't as bad as she'd thought it would be.

Nephelle glanced around the table as the four of them ate. Casper and Hazel had spent most of the morning giving the two of them advice, and she was starting to feel a little better. Maybe there was a chance that she was going to make it through this. Maybe…

"So what about allies?" Thomas asked hesitantly. The topic had come up several times earlier, but nothing had really been decided on. And maybe that made sense. After all, the only other tribute she'd actually met was Thomas. So was he asking if _they_ should be allies, or just wanting advice on allies in general?

"You're probably going to have to wait until you meet some of the other tributes to really decide on that," Casper reasoned. "Even if you're thinking about allying with each other, it's a good idea to consider your other options first. You don't want to get stuck in an alliance you don't really want because you were desperate to find _someone_ and didn't think you had any other options."

"Is that what happened to you?" Thomas asked.

Casper chuckled. "Not at all. I didn't have any allies until the very end of training, when my district partner finally offered. By then … well, I suppose I was glad to find _someone_ , but it was never really about being desperate. It wasn't an alliance of convenience. We knew we could trust each other." He shook his head. "A lot of people would tell you that's not the most important thing in an alliance. That's it's more important to find people who are stronger, people who have skills that you lack. But if you can't _trust_ them – at least a little – then there's no point having them around at all."

Thomas turned to Hazel. "And you?"

"I ended up allying with my district partner, too, actually," Hazel agreed. "But that was because I already knew him. He was friends with my older brother. But I got lucky there, I suppose. He was someone I could trust _and_ someone who was both older and stronger than I was. He helped me stay alive, and, in the end, that's what you're looking for – someone who can help you survive."

Nephelle nodded. That was all well and good. But there wasn't anyone in the Games she could really trust. Thomas seemed nice enough, but when push came to shove, he would choose his own life over helping her survive. Not that she blamed him for that; it was human nature, and she would do the same. But all their mentors' talk about _trust_ … well, maybe that was part of the reason District Seven only had two Victors.

She knew better than to say that, of course. The only person she really _could_ count on to help her rather than themselves was Hazel, and she wasn't about to jeopardize that by saying something rash.

"But how do you _know_ who can help you survive?" Thomas asked. "How do you _know_ how you can trust?"

Casper shook his head. "It's not like there's some secret to it. At some point, you just have to go with your gut feeling about a person. And if at some point you realize you were wrong … get out. Before it kills you."

Nephelle nodded. That was the important thing, really. Everyone made mistakes in the Games; that was unavoidable. The important thing was being able to recognize those mistakes before it was too late, before they became too costly.

"So how would you go about looking for allies?" she asked. "Especially with this many tributes?"

"It helps to have some idea of what you're looking for," Hazel reasoned. "Or at least how _many_ allies you're looking for. Since there aren't as many Careers this year, there might be other larger groups forming. Since the two of you are some of the older tributes, they might ask you by default, and you'll have to decide if that's something you're interested in."

Nephelle nodded, but she already knew the answer to that. Being in a big group might seem appealing, but it wasn't worth the risk. Larger groups automatically had a target on their backs. Other tributes assumed large groups were a threat, even if they were made up of tributes who wouldn't normally be a threat individually.

"I don't think so," Thomas replied, shaking his head. "Large groups have never really been my thing…"

"Then that's not likely to change now," Hazel reasoned. "No reason to add to a situation that's already stressful by putting yourself around more people than you need to – especially people you might get attached to."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Thomas admitted.

Casper shook his head. "No, but it does tend to happen – whether you mean for it to or not. Being forced into a life-or-death situation with people … it heightens emotions. It brings out the worst in people, but it can also bring out the best. The sort of bond that comes from finding someone who would actually put their life on the line for you … that's hard to shake."

"Then you got lucky," Thomas put in. "Most people don't find allies who would do that."

"I did get lucky," Capser agreed. "And you're right. It's probably not the norm. I'm just saying … well, just try not to get too attached. And having a smaller group means fewer people to get attached to, yes, but it also means you get a lot closer to the allies you _do_ have. It's harder to let go when … well, when you eventually have to. One way or another, every alliance is going to end."

Nephelle nodded. Exactly. So it was better not to get attached in the first place. Which meant that what they were really looking for was allies that they wouldn't become too close to. Allies who realized the same thing – that any alliance was going to be temporary, and that they would eventually have to part ways.

Allies like each other, maybe.

Maybe. She didn't want to get too far ahead of herself, and Casper was right about considering other options, but Thomas already seemed to have the right attitude. He was asking the right questions. He was older, stronger, and would probably be willing to accept if she asked.

But not yet. She didn't want to seem too eager for an alliance. That might look suspicious. Besides, if the pair of them went into training having already formed an alliance, that might deter anyone else from joining up with them. And while she didn't like the sound of joining a larger group, she wouldn't mind having another ally or two in addition to Thomas.

Thomas, however, seemed ready to move on with the conversation. "So once we have allies – whether it's each other or someone else – then what? If there are going to be fewer Careers, does that mean it might be safer to try to get supplies at the beginning?"

"Maybe," Hazel agreed. "Back when I won – before there were really Careers – there wasn't as much fighting at the start. But now … now, it's something the audience will expect, even if there aren't as many Careers. And I wouldn't ignore the Careers that there _are_. The audience will still be expecting the tributes from Career districts to _act_ like Careers, even if they aren't, so they might try to prove themselves by making a splash during the bloodbath."

That made sense. It might even be what she would do, if she was from a Career district. But she wasn't. No one was expecting a tribute from District Seven to charge into the bloodbath. And there didn't seem to be much of a reason to. It was tempting, especially with the prospect of fewer Careers, but tributes were usually able to find supplies pretty well without having to rely on getting something from the bloodbath.

It just wasn't worth the risk.

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

He wasn't in much of a rush to get started yet.

Wes leaned back in his chair, doing his best to listen as the other five – Shanali, Kilian, and their three mentors – kept talking. Well, _some_ of them were talking, at least. Kilian and Shanali seemed eager to keep started, and Elijah and Tamsin were perfectly content to jump right in and get to the point. Violet, on the other hand…

She must have caught Wes staring at her, because she immediately looked away and started making her way to the kitchen, instead. The others didn't even seem to notice. Or maybe they thought she was just going to get some more food. Quietly, Wes got up and followed her.

"Are you all right?" he asked once they were out of earshot of the others.

Violet grabbed a bottle of wine and poured herself a drink. "No. Get used to that. None of us are all right – even the ones who seem like it. Even the ones who have gone back to normal lives and tried to move on … no, they're not all right either. They're just better at pretending."

Wes glanced at the bottle in her hand. How much had she already had? "Well, that's … helpful."

Violet burst out laughing. "I'm sure it is. That's very kind of you. But if you want 'helpful,' you should probably head back and talk to the others."

Wes shook his head. "I don't know about that. You won, after all – and more recently than either of them."

Violet took a long drink. "Yes. Yes, I did. But if you want to win too, you need to stop worrying about me. I'm alive. I'll still be alive once these Games are over. You need to start worrying about _you_ if you want to make it out of the Games alive."

Wes nodded. He knew that. But he didn't _want_ to start worrying about himself. If he did, he knew, he wouldn't be able to stop. Wasn't it better to just deal with things as they came, to play it by ear? "What about you?" he asked. "Were you worried?"

Violet chuckled. "Not nearly as worried as I should have been. On the train ride, my district partners and I decided to form an alliance, and I figured that was that. They would help keep me alive for a while, and then … then I could worry about whatever came after that."

That made sense. "And it worked out pretty well," he pointed out. "The three of you lasted a while – and _you_ survived."

Violet nodded, swirling her drink a little before taking another sip. "Oh, it _worked_ all right. If you mean I survived, I guess. But the other two … they weren't nearly as helpful as I was counting on, when it came down to it. The three of us did pretty well against a tribute who happened to be alone, but when it came to the Careers…"

Wes shrugged. "Well, that's not their fault – or yours. No one expects a couple of outer-district tributes to be able to beat a group of Careers in a fair fight."

"Exactly," Violet agreed. "No one expects it. We go into the Games, and they _expect_ us to fail. They _expect_ us to die. And most of the time, they're right. But no one seems to want to do a damn thing about it. They sit out there giving advice as if it's really going to help once your lives are on the line. The truth is, there's nothing they can tell you that's going to help you once you're actually in the Games, once you're face to face with another tribute who's prepared their whole lives just to kill you."

Wes nodded. "Good thing there won't be as many Careers this year, then."

Violet shook her head. "You'd think so. Oh, you'd think so from watching the reapings. But even the ones who don't have the skill – they'll be trying to _seem_ like Careers for the audience."

That made sense. He didn't like it, but it made sense. "So what do I do?" he asked. "Go out there and try to form an alliance like you did? Ask my district partners?" Would they say yes, if he asked? He wasn't even sure if Shanali and Kilian were planning on teaming up with each other, despite the amount of chatter that was coming from the other room. It could just be friendly advice. Or it could be something more. If it _was_ , would they let him join in?

Was that a group he _wanted_ to join in?

Violet drained her glass before answering. "I don't know. Maybe you want to take the same approach I did. Maybe not. Some Victors have had allies; some haven't. It's all about what you think is going to work for _you_."

That wasn't particularly helpful. "But how do I _know_ what's going to work for me?"

"You don't."

"Great."

Violet chuckled a little. "I didn't know, either – not going in. I thought we would be able to make it pretty far, but the truth is that no one goes into the Games with any real idea of what's going to happen. That's … well, that's normal. And as far as this year goes, anything normal is going to be a relief."

"You think I should be relieved that I don't know what I'm doing?"

"I'd be more worried if you _did_. If you thought you knew exactly what you were doing. If you already had what you thought was a fool-proof plan. Because there _are_ no fool-proof plans. There's no one strategy that works for everyone, every time. If there was, don't you think someone would have figured it out by now?"

Wes nodded reluctantly. She was right. And he _hated_ that she was right. There was no way to guarantee that he would win. No way to know for sure that he would be the one coming out of the arena alive. "Thanks," Wes mumbled.

Violet scoffed. "Look, if you really insist on me giving you advice about allies … no, I wouldn't team up with your district partners."

That caught him by surprise. "Why not?"

"Nothing against them in particular," Violet assured him. "But I only won four years ago. My Games will still be fresh in people's minds. The idea of all three tributes from Eleven teaming up will set off alarm bells in some tributes' heads – especially since all three of you are on the older side. And the Gamemakers will notice, too. This year especially, they'll want to seem like they're doing something _new_. If you team up with your district partners, just like I did, and start hunting down other tributes, just like I did … they might try to spice things up a bit. And that's never something you want."

"So who _would_ you suggest allying with?"

"Not a large group, for starters," Violet suggested. "Larger groups tend to draw attention from the Careers – and that'll be especially true this year. Any group that seems large enough to challenge the Career pack will be a target, because they'll want to prove themselves as soon as the Games start. They'll want to show the audience that they _are_ a Career pack, and you don't want to get in their way."

"So a small group, then," Wes agreed. "A few other people? Maybe one or two?"

"That sounds about right. There were three of us, and we managed to avoid the Careers' attention for a while. Just know that you won't be able to avoid their attention forever – or the attention of the Gamemakers. No matter how many tributes you decide to ally with – or no matter how few – eventually, it'll be you. Just you, trying to survive. Just you, against whoever else is left."

Wes swallowed hard. That sounded even worse. The thought of facing the Games with an ally or two by his side was bad enough. But the thought of being _alone_ in the arena was even more frightening.

Violet laid a hand gently on his shoulder. "Don't worry. You'll have time to get used to the idea. With any luck, by the time it's just you, you'll be glad you don't have to watch your back anymore. Glad you don't have to worry that your allies might turn on you." She shook her head. "It's been four years, and I still wonder what would have happened if my allies had lasted a little longer. Whether they would have turned on me, whether I would have turned on them. I don't know." She shrugged. "Maybe I should be glad I don't know."

Maybe. But as hard as he tried, Wes couldn't imagine turning on someone he considered an ally. A friend. Whatever allies he had, he hoped he wouldn't have to. That they would be able to part ways peacefully before it came to that. It happened sometimes. Sometimes.

He just hoped he could get that lucky.

* * *

" _Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that function is smothered in surmise, and nothing is but what is not."_


	20. Chariot Rides: Fairest Show

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Results of the "favorite tributes" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking who you think is going to die in the bloodbath. (Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want_ to see die in the bloodbath.) This one will be up until at least the end of training.

* * *

 **Chariot Rides  
** **Fairest Show**

* * *

 **Felix Stout, 52  
** **District One Mentor**

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

Felix couldn't help a smile as he settled into a seat near the Florens. The three of them were already mingling with the other Victors, as they had probably done every year. Felix leaned back in his chair, waiting for the tribute parade to start. He didn't know the other Victors as well as Jade, Stellar, and Jasper did. His own Games had been more than thirty years ago, and he hadn't mentored since. He'd watched the Games, of course, so he knew the names of the younger Victors, but still…

"Felix!" called a voice, and he turned, surprised, in time to see Mags coming making her way towards him. "So they finally talked you into mentoring?"

Felix smirked. "Don't count on it happening too often. I'd rather leave it to people with a bit more experience." It was an excuse, of course, but she let it slide. If he'd started mentoring after his Games, he would easily have as much experience as Jade and Stellar by now. But the truth was, he'd never wanted to. His own Games had been quite enough; he didn't need the stress of trying to keep a tribute alive during theirs. And there were plenty of other Victors who were happy to do the job.

Still, there was something undeniably exciting about it. The roar of the crowd, the cheers, the applause – it was almost enough to make him forget why they were here. That these kids were here to _kill_ each other, just like he had done. Just like so many tributes before them.

As the first of the chariots began to appear, however, cheers quickly turned to laughter, and it was easy to see why. Instead of the usual elegant, jewel-studded outfits, District One's tributes were dressed in some sort of large, bulky costumes that were probably meant to resemble diamonds. The costumes were a milky white with jagged edges, but that was where the resemblance to a diamond stopped. They almost looked like they were made out of foam.

Justus, for his part, was clearly displeased with the situation, his arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. Mae didn't look much happier, bumping into the others' costumes as she tried to find a better position in the crowded chariot. Genevieve was waving at the crowds as they laughed, maybe hoping to salvage the silly impression they were making.

Consus, on the other hand, was clearly trying to hold back laughter. Felix couldn't quite hear him over the crowd, but he was pretty sure the boy was chuckling. Mae turned towards him, and he mouthed something to her, pointing at their costumes. Mae shook her head, but Consus reached out and grabbed a fistful of his own costume, then took a bite.

It must not have been foam, after all. Now that the chariots were closer, it looked almost like some sort of candy. Sugar, perhaps, that had been hardened into the shape of a diamond. Felix turned to Jade as Consus munched away at his own costume. "This isn't quite how I remember it."

Stellar shook her head, clearly disgusted by the stylists' choice, but Jade simply shrugged. "It doesn't matter. No one's going to discount District One just because of one silly outfit. They know better than that."

Felix just hoped he was right.

* * *

 **Harriet Bard, 30  
** **District Two Mentor**

She just hoped District Two's costumes were better.

Harriet shook her head as District One's silly giant diamonds continued to roll down the street. It would be hard to do much _worse_ , particularly for a district whose outfits were usually quite traditional and elegant. Jade was right, of course; no one was about to make the mistake of ignoring or underestimating District One because of a silly chariot outfit, but it certainly didn't give their tributes much of an opportunity to stand out among the other Careers.

Harriet breathed a sigh of relief when she saw District Two's chariot. It was a bit crowded, but at least they didn't have to deal with bulky, ridiculous costumes like District One. The five tributes were dressed as warriors, each one's outfit a little bit different.

Margo was wearing a long, silver dress, white gloves, and silver shoes. She carried a bow and had a quiver of arrows strung over her back. Her hair was pulled back, and her face lined with silver paint. She was trying to smile, but clearly wasn't as excited as the crowd was. Still, maybe her outfit would be enough to draw some attention.

Mae, on the other hand, was dressed in armor from head to toe, a helmet hiding most of her face. She held a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. They were clearly heavier than she would have liked, but she was doing her best to hold them up so that the crowd could see them, waving her sword a little this way and that.

Etora didn't have to deal with any armor. She wore a simple brown shirt and shorts, but her sleeves and her shorts were both cut short, letting her limbs show. Her hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders, blowing this way and that as the chariot rolled forwards. She held a club in one hand and a large rock in the other, and was waving both in the air. The audience was cheering, waving their arms along with her.

Darian didn't look nearly as excited, but, then again, she couldn't really see much of his face. He wore a dark green robe and a long, dark grey cloak with a hood that hid most of his face. She could, however, see a pair of knives in his hands, which had been stained red with something clearly meant to resemble blood.

Leo, last of all, hadn't been given a weapon. Or maybe he'd refused one. He wore a long tan robe and carried a staff with two snakes curling around the outside. A satchel was slung over his shoulder, medical supplies poking out of it here and there. His eyes darted around quickly, looking everywhere but the crowd.

"Maybe not the flashiest outfits we've had," Mortimer admitted. "But there's something to be said for tradition."

Harriet couldn't help a smile. Mortimer had always been one for tradition, and this time, she couldn't really argue with that. Tributes from District Two were fighters, and this year more than ever, the audience might need a reminder of that. That these five tributes were ready to battle for their lives, prepared to do whatever needed to be done.

Or, at least, _most_ of them were. Harriet glanced over at Vester, who was watching silently as Leo fiddled with his staff. Maybe she should say something. But what? He'd had his pick of the tributes, and he'd chosen the one who didn't have a chance.

Whatever happened during the Games, he'd brought it on himself.

* * *

 **Percival Kent, 36  
** **District Three Mentor**

They'd brought this on themselves.

Percival couldn't help a hint of a smile as he watched the first two chariots roll by, holding four or five tributes. He would never admit it, but it was almost satisfying to see _their_ chariots packed full for a change. For the last eight years, District Three had been one of the districts sending extra tributes. One, Two, Five – they had been spared, sending the normal two tributes because of their loyalty.

But now it was coming back to bite them. All those years of glorifying the Games, of encouraging their tributes to train, to fight ruthlessly, to kill without mercy. All those years of working to get Victor after Victor. Now it was backfiring. Now _they_ were the ones sending extra tributes, and it _almost_ felt good.

Almost. Because these kids … these weren't tributes who had trained. Not most of them, at least. They weren't responsible for what their district had done, any more than any of the tributes were responsible for the rebellion that had started the Games in the first place. All of them – Careers or not – were paying the price for choices made long before they were born. Choices they'd had no part in.

Percival shook his head as District Three's chariot rolled forward behind the first two. Maybe it wasn't right to gloat – even to himself – about the fact that the Career districts had to send more tributes. But he could certainly be grateful that _their_ district only had to send two, and that their costumes certainly weren't as bad as they could have been. Not as bad as some of the previous years' costumes.

In fact, this year's were rather subdued. Both Merrik and Diana were dressed as robots, their skin painted a shiny shade of silver, their hair slicked back to appear more metallic. Their clothes were silver and shiny, with buttons painted all over. Diana was playing along, making short, quick movements with her arms and legs, turning her head this way and that, waving at the audience in short bursts, as if she was running low on power.

Merrik, on the other hand, already looked as if his robot's power had been drained. The boy stood completely still, maybe hoping that the audience would ignore him and focus on his district partner instead. And that certainly seemed to be what they were doing. If his idea had been to avoid attention, he was doing a fairly good job of it.

But Percival had a feeling that hadn't been his intention. That the boy was simply scared stiff. That was perfectly understandable, of course. Anyone who _wasn't_ afraid of the Games was either arrogant or an idiot. But the audience didn't want to see tributes who were frightened. They wanted to see tributes who were ready for the challenge of the Games – or, at least, tributes who were willing to pretend that they were. Tributes who were willing to play along.

Tributes like Diana.

Percival turned to Miriam, who shrugged. Maybe it didn't matter, really, whether he was willing to play along just yet. How many tributes from District Three had really made an impression during the chariot rides? Sure, Diana was doing her best, but how many of the Capitolites who were watching now would really remember her later, after so many tributes from so many districts had passed? Maybe a few, but her real chance to make an impression would come later.

That would come in the Games.

* * *

 **Bierce Lascher, 32  
** **District Four Mentor**

Their real chance to shine wouldn't come until the Games.

Bierce leaned back in his chair as the chariots continued to roll past them. Some of the outfits would be good; some would be laughable. But in the end, it didn't really matter. Even the most stunning chariot outfit couldn't make up for a lack of training or an unwillingness to do what had to be done. And it wasn't as if a horrible outfit was really going to ruin anyone's chances. Not unless they _let_ it.

His own chariot outfit had certainly been less than spectacular. He and his district partner had been dressed as giant sharks, and had spent the chariot ride pretending to bite at each other. When they'd tired of that, they'd pretended to eat the chariot. It had been ridiculous, but it had all been forgotten the moment they'd entered the arena. From that point, all that really mattered was what a tribute _did,_ not what they were wearing.

Still, he had to admit that stingrays were a much better idea.

Aleyn, Arabel, Emmett, and Ronan were covered from head to toe in dark blue body suits, with flaps connecting their arms and legs that looked like a stingray's fins when they raised their arms. Each of them had a tail, pointed at the end to look like a weapon. Aleyn was flapping around the front of the chariot, pretending to be gliding through the water. Arabel and Ronan were playing along, as well, leaning back and forth, their arms stretched out, pretending to swim. Emmett, on the other hand, stood stubbornly off to the side – or, at least, as far to the side as he could get in the rather crowded chariot. His arms remained at his side, and, for a moment, Percival thought he saw the boy shaking his head.

He probably didn't mean for it to come across as disobedient. He was probably simply frustrated with what he thought was a stupid costume. Still, Bierce leaned over towards Kalypso, about to advise her that she might want to have a word with Emmett about his attitude.

Before he could say a word, however, she nodded in agreement. "I know."

Bierce settled back into his seat, content. That was all it ever took with Kalypso. Just a few words, and each knew what the other was going to say. They'd always worked well together. There had even been speculation in the Capitol for a while that they were in a secret relationship. Why the hell two Victors would need to keep a relationship a _secret_ , he'd never really understood, but the Capitol loved gossip.

There had never been any truth to it. He'd been her student; she had been his mentor. They made a good team, but after his Games, they'd parted ways. She'd gone on to train tributes at the academy, while he'd been content to go back to his life as a shipbuilder, teaching youngsters the trade so that they wouldn't _have_ to consider going into the Games their only option to escape a life of poverty.

Whether his efforts had done any good, whether he'd really managed to make a difference, to make a dent in the Career mentality in District Four, he was never really sure. But ever since Misha had burned down the training center during the 42nd Games, Career training had dropped off significantly, and the number of teenagers who were willing to risk their lives in the Games had dropped along with it. Whether that was good or bad, he still wasn't entirely sure.

Only time would tell.

* * *

 **Camden Sinclair, 29  
** **District Five Mentor**

Only time would tell whether this Quell had been a good idea.

Camden drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. It wasn't their place to question the Capitol, of course. They had their reasons for doing … whatever it was they were doing. But now more than ever, seeing so many Career-district tributes without training ride past her in the chariots, it seemed counterproductive, at the very least, to reward their loyalty like this. Maybe District Four deserved it, after their part in the 41st Games. After what Misha had done. But they'd been sending extra tributes for the last eight years. This year was really no different for them.

But four tributes from One, five from Two, four from Five … it didn't quite seem fair. Maybe if they'd allowed volunteers. Maybe they wouldn't have been able to fill all the spots, but at least she wouldn't be stuck mentoring a twelve-year-old kid.

He was taking it about as well as could be hoped. Camden shook her head as District Five's chariot finally appeared. Retro was in front, waving a little at the crowd, trying to look as prepared as the tributes behind him. It wasn't working. He was so young. He wasn't ready for this. Even after three days of training, he wouldn't be ready for this.

Their stylists had done their best, of course. The four of them were dressed in black leotards, with sparkling, colored lights running up and down their arms and legs in rows. Not the flashiest chariot outfit, perhaps, but Mac and Elliot certainly seemed to be having fun. The pair of them were smiling and waving at the crowd, thrilled to be here. At least they _wanted_ to be here. Or, at the very least, Mac did, and Elliot was pretty good at pretending.

Vashti, on the other hand, wasn't bothering to pretend. He was scowling at his district partners, at the crowd, at anything that happened to come into his field of vision. Camden glanced over at Harakuise, but he didn't seem particularly upset by his tribute's actions – or, rather, lack of action. "That's about what I expected," he admitted.

Camden nodded in agreement. None of their tributes' reactions were particularly surprising. The ones with some training were acting like Careers. Retro and Vashti clearly weren't. "I guess this is a good reminder of why we _have_ a Career system in the first place," Camden offered.

"That's exactly what it is," Harakuise agreed. "It's too easy to get complacent. To get used to winning. You, Adalyn, Oliver – three victories in less than a dozen years. It's easy to get used to. Easy to forget how grateful we should be to have the opportunities we do."

A snorting noise from behind her caught her off guard. Camden turned to see Duke coughing, chuckling a little. "Sorry, just got something in my throat," he lied.

Harakuise shook his head and turned his attention back to the tribute parade. But Camden glared at Duke. "Go ahead. Laugh. But you can't tell me you don't wish there had been a Career there to volunteer for you. Or you," she added, turning to Nicodemus, then to Vernon. "Or you. Or your _son_."

Harakuise laid a hand on her shoulder. "All right, Camden. That's enough. Point made." And he was right. They were just jealous, really. They hadn't _wanted_ to be in the Games. She had. That was the real difference between Five and Six. Five knew better than to turn down a good opportunity, while Six had done nothing but turn down every opportunity they'd had to prove their loyalty.

Someday, they would realize how wrong they were.

* * *

 **Duke Ballard, 19  
** **District Six Mentor**

The worst part was, she wasn't entirely wrong.

Duke leaned back in his chair as District Six's chariot appeared behind the others. Camden was irritating, but she wasn't saying anything that hadn't occurred to him before. Vernon's solution to District Six's reaping problem was hardly any better than District Five's Career system. At least the Careers got to _choose_ whether they wanted to volunteer. He hadn't had a choice. He'd never had a choice.

So there was definitely something appealing about the idea. About training tributes specifically for the Games so that kids who were unprepared – kids like Lena and Charu – didn't have to face almost certain death. But it was something that was too far out of District Six's reach. Even if Vernon had wanted to set up some sort of Career system instead of simply arranging for the reapings to be rigged, he wouldn't have had the means, and certainly wouldn't have had the Capitol's approval. Especially not after what had happened during the 41st Games.

That hadn't been their fault, of course. Vernon and Nicodemus hadn't been involved, and Nicodemus had tried to persuade his tributes not to participate. But the Capitol didn't care about that; they never did. They just wanted someone to blame. Someone to punish.

And this year, it happened to be two girls who had probably never done a thing to harm anyone. Duke shook his head, watching Charu and Lena wave at the crowd. The pair of them were dressed in khaki shorts, green shirts, and thick boots. Each of them held a large, detailed map of Panem – as if they were leading some sort of trek across the districts. To top it off, each of them was wearing a funny khaki hat and a pair of binoculars.

At least the two of them seemed willing to play along. They were taking turns pointing to different things on each other's maps, holding up their binoculars and pretending to look at something out in the audience. Maybe they were actually pointing out a funny-looking Capitolite or two. There was certainly something satisfying about that. About the thought that while the two of them were on display in a silly parade, they were actually poking fun at someone else.

They probably weren't, of course, but he could always imagine that was what they were doing. That was certainly what he would be doing in their place. But Lena seemed too sweet to even point and laugh at someone else, and Charu … she certainly didn't seem the sort to make fun of someone because of the way they looked or the way they were dressed.

Normally, of course, that would be a good thing. Something he would appreciate, even. And even in the Games, _that_ wasn't what would be detrimental to either of them. Even the Victors who made it out of the Games physically intact didn't make it out looking _pretty_. He certainly hadn't. He'd left a leg in the Games; others had left more. Once the chariot rides and the interviews were over, the Games weren't a beauty pageant anymore.

That wasn't what he was worried about. But neither of their tributes really belonged in the Games. Not the way he had. He was no Career, of course, but a life on the streets running with the gangs of District Six had at least somewhat prepared him for what was waiting in the arena. These two…

They were more like Nicodemus. But he had made it out of the Games alive. Somehow, he'd been able to put aside his kinder nature long enough to make it through the arena. Duke leaned back in his chair, watching as Lena and Charu continued to point and smile and wave.

He would just have to hope they could do the same.

* * *

 **Hazel Birnam, 59  
** **District Seven Mentor**

She would just have to hope the Capitol wouldn't hold their silly outfits against them.

Hazel sighed as District Seven's chariot finally appeared. Maybe Six's safari navigators had been a bit silly, but at least they'd had relatively simple, normal costumes. District Seven, on the other hand, didn't really lend itself to that sort of thing. Usually, they were trees – and the years when they weren't tended to be even worse.

This was one of those years.

Nephelle and Thomas were covered from head to toe in some sort of brown goo. It was probably meant to resemble soil, but it really just looked like a big mess. Sticking out of the brown mixture were little green sprouts that were probably supposed to be tiny trees. Maybe someone had mentioned to one of their stylists that Nephelle had a job as a planter back in Seven. Maybe this was what they had been planning all along.

Either way, someone obviously hadn't been thinking clearly.

"Great," Casper muttered as the audience burst into laughter. "Just great. This is worse than the year they were apples. Are they _trying_ to make our tributes look like giant piles of shit?"

Behind them, Lander chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you said it before I did. I might have felt bad if I'd said it first."

Casper shook his head. "No you wouldn't have."

"Probably not," Lander admitted. "But this is ridiculous. All they're missing is some giant flies buzzing around them. What were your stylists thinking?"

Hazel shook her head. "Not a clue."

"Could be worse, I guess," Casper offered hopefully. "At least they're wearing clothes under all that brown goop."

"Are you sure?" Hazel asked.

Casper nodded. "See those patches there?" He pointed to Nephelle and Thomas, who were doing their best to wave without splattering brown goop all over each other. Hazel shook her head. She couldn't see any patches of clothing from where she was sitting. She could barely see their tributes' _faces_ under all the mess.

"Certainly in the running for worst chariot outfit," she grumbled, and no one objected.

Not until they saw District Eight.

* * *

 **Kit Rawlins, 23  
** **District Eight Mentor**

He hadn't thought anything would be worse than District Seven's outfits.

Kit couldn't help a groan as District Eight's chariot appeared. Both tributes were practically naked, with only a few choice strips of fabric covering their more private areas. The crowd was still laughing, but how many of those laughs were still directed at District Seven and how many belonged to District Eight now, he wasn't sure.

Finally, some sort of drawer opened up in the bottom of the chariot, and Klaudia and Mariska both relaxed a little bit. Each pulled out a dress – a skimpy little pink dress, but at least it was better than what they had on.

As Klaudia started to put hers on, however, she sprung back suddenly as if struck by something. Or maybe zapped by some sort of electricity. Mariska tried the same, only to be similarly shocked. Kit glanced over at Lander and Carolina. "What's going on?"

"Damned if I know," Lander muttered. "Why give them something to wear if they're not going to—"

"Wait," Carolina interrupted. "They've figured it out." Mariska was approaching Klaudia tentatively, holding out the dress she'd retrieved from the compartment. Cautiously, the pair traded, and helped each other into the funny little dresses. Carolina shook her head. "What are they getting at?"

Lander shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe they're not getting at anything. Maybe they're just trying to be obnoxious." That certainly seemed to be the case. Even with a little more covering, both Mariska and Klaudia were clearly uncomfortable. Klaudia was fidgeting with her dress, while Mariska was scowling at the bottom of the chariot, maybe hoping that another drawer would open up with a better costume.

When it did open, however, Klaudia bent down to pick up two pairs of cat ears. She handed one to Mariska, whose scowl grew even tenser. For a moment, Kit thought she might toss the ears out of the chariot or something. "Come on," Lander muttered beside him. "Don't do anything stupid."

After a moment, Mariska shook her head, placing her pair of cat ears on Klaudia's head. Klaudia did the same, and the audience burst into giggles. "Great," Lander grumbled. "Now they look like cats … if cats had no fur and wore skimpy dresses."

Carolina sighed. "Why cats? That might make sense in District Ten, if they were supposed to be barn cats or something, or chasing field mice in District Nine. How many cats do they think we have in Eight?"

Lander shrugged. "Not a clue. Who knows what they were thinking. Don't try to figure it out; it'll give you a headache."

Kit nodded. Maybe Lander was right. Better not to try to understand what the Capitolites were thinking. At least Klaudia and Mariska were playing along for now.

He just hoped they would have the sense to _keep_ playing along.

* * *

 **Eloise Davies, 34  
** **District Nine Mentor**

It wouldn't take much to beat out the last couple outfits.

Eloise winced sympathetically as District Eight's chariot kept rolling along, drawing more laughter from the crowd as it went. Maybe District Nine's outfits weren't usually particularly good, but she couldn't remember any being quite that bad. A few years ago, the tributes had been dressed as bread, and that was pretty bad, yes … but not as bad as scantily clad cats or a pile of brown goo.

Eloise wasn't sure whether to laugh of breathe a sigh of relief when she saw District Nine's chariot. Maybe windmills weren't the _best_ outfit in the parade, but they were far from the worst. Each of the tributes was dressed in a long robe that had been patterned to look like bricks, and their arms were stretched out to look like the blades of the windmills.

Basil shrugged as the chariot rolled forward. "Could be worse. At least they're getting into it."

And sure enough, they were. All three of the tributes were circling their arms in the air, trying to look like windmills turning in the breeze – and trying not to hit each other in the process. Eloise couldn't help a little smile as Barlen started turning his arms the other way, grinning at the crowds as if he'd forgotten the real reason they were there.

Maybe he had.

 _Stop it._ Barlen wasn't her tribute. And she'd specifically told Ti that it was in his best interests not to spend too much time with the younger boy. Not to get attached. But during the chariot rides, at least, it was rather impossible for district partners to avoid each other, and Ti and Aven didn't show much interest in even _trying_ to ignore Barlen. Aven smiled and gave Ti a nudge, and the pair of them adjusted so that their arms were spinning in the same direction as Barlen's.

The crowd cheered as they passed. Maybe they were just happy to see an outfit that didn't look completely ridiculous. Or maybe the tributes' enthusiasm was rubbing off on them. Either way, at least District Nine wouldn't be remembered as the district with the silliest outfits.

Not this year, at least.

* * *

 **Presley Winters, 29  
** **District Ten Mentor**

At least the tributes weren't dressed like cows this year.

Presley leaned back in her seat, letting out a sigh of relief as District Ten's chariots appeared. The tributes were usually dressed as something ridiculous like cows or pigs or horses or even sheep. This year, however, the stylists had decided to go a different route.

They'd dressed up the horses that were pulling the chariot.

Presley couldn't help a smile when she saw the two white horses, splotched with some sort of black paint to make them look like cows. Skyton and Connor had fared a little better. They were dressed all in leather – black leather pants, tan leather shirts, thick boots, and wide-brimmed hats. Maybe it wasn't the most creative outfit, but sometimes it was better to go with something a bit more traditional than to branch out and end up doing something completely silly.

Connor, at least, was certainly getting into his role. Each of the boys had a lasso, and Connor was swinging his this way and that, clearly familiar enough with one to show off a few tricks. The crowd was eating it up, and Connor was grinning and waving, but careful not to loop the rope around the horses' necks or anything.

Skyton, on the other hand, seemed much less enthusiastic. Connor finally managed to convince him to swing his lasso around a little bit, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it. He kept rubbing the sleeves of his shirt uncomfortably, as if feeling sorry for the animal it had been made out of. "Great," Presley mumbled. "If he gets this worked up about a leather shirt, what's he going to do once it's _people_ who are dying?"

"Says the girl who won her Games by making friends with a pair of lions," Glenn pointed out. "How would you have felt if one of _them_ had died?"

"Not as badly as if _I_ had died," Presley shot back. "I just hope he pulls himself together once the Games start."

"He will."

Presley shook her head. She wished she was that confident. Skyton was supposed to be _her_ tribute, after all. Not that she and Glenn had made much of a distinction out of that after the boys had decided to work together. On the one hand, that made their jobs a little bit easier. But on the other…

On the other hand, it felt rather like they were putting all of their eggs in one basket. If anything happened to one of their tributes, it was likely to come back to bite the other one, as well. That was precisely the reason she'd refused to find any allies – to avoid whatever drama they might bring to the Games. It wasn't worth taking that sort of risk.

But it was too late now. Too late for Skyton and Connor to call off their alliance, even if one of them wanted to. They were a pair now, and it wouldn't be long before the other tributes figured it out.

She could only hope that would work in their favor.

* * *

 **Elijah Whitaker, 42  
** **District Eleven Mentor**

At least their tributes had found a way to make the outfits work in their favor.

Elijah couldn't help a smile as District Eleven's chariot appeared. The entire chariot had been designed to look like a cornucopia, with all sorts of fruits and vegetables pouring out of the front. Shanali, Kilian, and Wes were dressed in what he could only assume were "fruit gatherer" costumes. Each wore a white shirt under a pair of blue overalls, thick boots, and a straw hat. The three of them seemed to have decided on a common angle, and were munching away at the fruit in front of them, tossing a few pieces into the crowd as they went.

"Could be worse," Elijah offered as Tamsin started chuckling. "At least they're not dressed as actual pieces of fruit." That had happened on occasion. Apples. Bananas. Four years ago, the tributes had been dressed as bunches of grapes. Unbeknownst to them at the time, the arena that year was a vineyard full of grapes. Did this year's chariot outfits mean something, too? Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe the stylists had simply gone with the most outrageous things they could think of. District One's diamonds. District Seven's mud piles. District Eight's puffy-dressed cats. Compared to them, Eleven had fared pretty well.

And at least having fruit to eat gave the tributes something to do besides try to smile and wave at the audience. By the time District Eleven's chariots rolled around, after all, the audience was probably tired of seeing tributes pretend that they wanted to be there. Tired of seeing forced smiles and reluctant waves. At least their tributes were doing something _different_ , if not something terribly exciting.

He wasn't fooling himself, of course. Their outfits wouldn't be winning District Eleven any sponsors. Not many people in the audience would remember their fruit pickers a week from now, when the tributes were fighting for their lives in the arena. But at least they wouldn't go down in the books as the most ridiculous costumes, either. There was something to be said for a middle-of-the-road outfit that didn't attract much attention one way or the other.

Tamsin nodded in agreement as the chariots rolled on. Only one district left. The audience's attention was starting to wane, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was better to just get the show over with.

Then the real work could begin.

* * *

 **Kyra Presper, 13  
** **District Twelve Mentor**

Tomorrow the real work would begin.

Kyra glanced up at Brennan as the last of the chariots appeared. Coal miners – just like they had been last year, and the year before, and the year before that, as far back as she could remember. But it hadn't mattered last year. She had made it through the Games without making much of an impression during the chariot rides. And Brennan…

"What was your outfit?" Kyra asked quietly as the chariots rolled on.

Brennan smirked. "Oh, ours were even worse. We were giant lumps of coal. For the most part, they decided to stick with miners after that. And at least it isn't _awful_ …" He trailed off, watching Orphelia and David do their best to smile and wave at the crowd. Neither of them was particularly enthusiastic, but people knew better than to expect any sort of real excitement from District Twelve.

Finally, the chariots rolled to a stop. Kyra turned her attention to the balcony, where both President Grisom and Vice President Brand stood, waiting for the crowd to settle down a little. It was a while before the cheers died down, but neither of them really seemed to mind. They waited patiently, neither of them holding up their hands for quiet, waiting for the noise to die down on its own.

Finally, the crowd settled down a bit more, and President Grisom stepped up to the microphone. "Welcome, tributes, to the Second Quarter Quell!" Cheers again, and another few moments before the crowd settled down enough for him to continue. "For fifty years now, the Games have given us the opportunity to celebrate the strength and courage of the districts, and to solidify the unity of Panem. We have endured through hardships and through trials, because we are united as one country, serving one common cause."

Kyra had to fight to keep from cringing. It was a load of crap, but she knew better than to say so. They all did. After what had happened nine years ago, every one of them knew better than to speak out. Beside her, Brennan stood silently watching his old mentor. "Tonight, we gather once more to honor your courage and sacrifice. Thank you for your service to Panem, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

The crowd cheered as the two of them left the balcony, and the tributes began to go their separate ways, some of them already splitting off into groups. She caught a glimpse of Orphelia and David heading off together. "What do you think?" she asked Brennan quietly as the mentors, too, began to head their separate ways to find their own tributes.

Brennan raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"David and Orphelia. Think they'll want to work together?"

Brennan hesitated a moment before answering. "Too early to tell," he decided. "Give them some time to interact with the other tributes. I ended up working with one of my district partners, but not the other – and we had other allies. We don't want to lock them into an alliance that won't work just because it's convenient for us."

He was right, of course. It would be convenient. She had been hoping that she and Brennan would be able to work together to help their tributes. And maybe they would. Maybe.

They would just have to wait and see.

* * *

 **Tamika Ward, 42  
** **Head Gamemaker**

The rest of Panem would just have to wait and see.

Tamika leaned back in her chair as most of her assistants went their separate ways. The arena was ready to go – and had been for a while – which left them with little to do until the tributes came in for their private sessions. Until then, it was up to the trainers, the stylists, the mentors, to get the tributes ready. Her part in the matter could wait.

Except for one thing.

She'd been expecting the knock on her door, and one of her avoxes was already standing ready to answer it. She rose from her desk and nodded crisply as the two men entered. "Mr. President. Mr. Vice President. What can I do for you this evening?"

President Grisom shook his head. "How many times do I have to ask you to call me Silas?"

Tamika smiled. It was something of a ritual by now. She simply couldn't get used to calling the president – or even the vice president – by his first name. Even now, years after President Snow's death, she still wasn't quite used to the differences between him and President Grisom. The contrast. Snow had been so much more hands-on, while Grisom seemed content to leave almost everything to do with the Games in her hands. As far as he was concerned, the Games weren't his job. Running Panem was. He'd joked on more than one occasion that _that_ took up enough of his time.

But now that job was about to pass to Vice President Brand. And as much of a wild card as Grisom had been, she had even less of an idea of what to expect from soon-to-be President Brand, who took a few steps towards her desk. "I suppose you know why we're here."

She did. Every so often, the president would have a special request. A tribute or two he wanted to make certain didn't make it out of the Games alive. Snow had come in far more often, but Grisom had made a request or two upon occasion, as well. "So who is it?" she asked.

Vice President Brand smiled. "Actually, it's no one."

"No one?"

"Just in case you were wondering … no one. Let the Games play out however they will."

Tamika raised an eyebrow. "I thought perhaps one or two of them…"

Brand nodded. "There are one or two who might cause trouble – at the moment. But if they're going to survive the Games, they'll need to adapt, and I don't think they would be any trouble to us after that. None of these kids are rebels, Tamika. Not like nine years ago. And if we don't want a repeat of nine years ago to happen _again_ sometime soon, we can't afford to appear too partial."

He was right, of course. He wasn't saying anything she hadn't thought of. Nothing she hadn't wanted to tell President Snow. He'd always kept a close eye on so many tributes in the arena, wondering which of them might turn against the Capitol if they were to emerge victorious. Which of them might try to incite a rebellion.

But rebellion hadn't come from one of those Victors. It had come from a Victor from District Four, of all places. A Victor who had shown no signs of rebellion when he'd been in the arena himself, nor for years afterwards. The truth was that there was no way to predict – not really – what a tribute might do after they'd won the Games. They could try to weed out the more obvious troublemakers, of course, but more often than not, the Careers took care of that themselves. Anyone who showed any signs of outright rebellion made a juicy target for the Careers from the moment they were reaped.

Tamika nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Vice President Brand chuckled a little. "I don't suppose it would do any good if I asked you to call me Eldred."

"Probably not," Tamika admitted.

He chuckled a little. "Then good night, Madam Gamemaker."

Tamika smiled a little as he left. President Grisom shrugged and followed him. "Madam Gamemaker. I like it."

So did she.

* * *

" _Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know."_


	21. Training: Nature

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

 **Note:** Summer break has started! Updates should be a bit more frequent now.

Due to the number of tributes, I'm splitting training up into six chapters rather than three. So if this chapter comes across a bit Career-heavy, don't fret. Everyone's going to get a POV during training; it's just that Careers tend to make sense as one of the first alliances to solidify.

* * *

 **Training Day One – Morning  
** **Nature**

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18  
** **District Four**

He was almost afraid of how good it felt.

Emmett closed his eyes, gripping the dagger tightly in his hands. It felt good to hold a weapon again – any sort of weapon. He hadn't felt like this since … too long. Once he'd dropped out of training, he'd tried to forget. Tried to ignore the feeling. The longing. The sheer _power_ that came with holding a weapon in his hand, ready to use it against someone else.

They wouldn't allow him to do anything of the sort during training, of course. He wouldn't be able to fight another tribute. Not until the Games began. And unless he was planning on joining the Career pack, Kalypso had suggested that it might be in his best interest to avoid the weapons stations altogether. But it had simply been too tempting. He'd only lasted a few minutes at the fire-starting station before he'd started making his way over to the weapons, as if drawn by some outside force.

But now that he was here – now that he had a weapon in his hand again – he had to make a choice. If he decided to show off now – if he practiced with a real weapon, if he showed what he was really capable of – then he would reveal himself as a threat. And if he didn't want to join up with the other Careers, that was something he couldn't afford.

But it felt so _good_ …

Slowly, he turned the dagger over in his hand, opening his eyes again. No. No, they were watching him now – the group of Careers that was starting to form at one of the nearby stations. Three of the tributes from One. Two of the younger ones from Two. The older pair from Five. But none of the tributes from District Four.

Had they decided not to invite anyone from Four? That wasn't unheard of, now that District Five's tributes were usually members of the pack. Six tributes was generally enough for a full pack. Any more than that, and the pack was prone to splitting up into smaller groups. If they were already at seven, they probably wouldn't want any more – even if some of their members were a bit young. Even if there were more tributes this year. They probably wouldn't want him.

And he probably didn't want _them_. He was probably better off on his own. Really, the only advantage of joining up with the pack right now was that he wouldn't have to hide. He wouldn't have to pretend. If he wanted to join them, all he had to do was make a move. Strike with the weapon that was already in his hand. As soon as they knew what he was capable of, they would almost certainly ask him to join them.

Or he could wait.

He would _have_ to wait.

Slowly, carefully, he laid the dagger back on the rack. The trainer nearby raised an eyebrow. Maybe he was a little disappointed, or maybe he was simply confused. But that didn't matter. The trainers didn't matter. They wouldn't be the ones going into the arena with him. The other tributes would. The _Careers_ would. And now that he had laid his weapon down, their attention was elsewhere.

All except one of them.

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

She was the only one still watching him.

Mae cocked her head, watching as the boy from Four set the dagger down, then picked it up again, then set it down once more before heading back towards the fire-starting station. He had seemed almost … What was that word? 'Hesitant' wasn't quite right. There had been nothing hesitant, nothing uncertain, about the way he'd held the weapon in his hands. Reluctant, then. Yes, that was it.

But what did that _mean_? Even when she could figure out what another person was feeling, it was always more difficult to trace what that really _meant_. Was he reluctant because he didn't want to think about using a weapon to hurt someone else? Or because he _did_ want to use it but had decided not to? Maybe he was trying not to draw attention to himself.

Or maybe … Maybe he _was_ trying to attract attention. Maybe he was hoping that simply picking up a weapon – but not using it – might be enough to draw attention from some of the Career pack. Maybe he was hoping to portray himself as a threat without any of the effort of actually practicing with a weapon. If so, maybe it had worked. He had certainly caught _her_ attention.

"Still with us, Mae?" Justus asked, and Mae immediately perked up. What had he been saying? Now the whole Career pack was looking at her. Great.

"We were just trying to figure out whether there's anyone else we should invite into the pack," the boy from Two, Darian, offered helpfully. "But it looks like we might be it, if none of the tributes from Four seem interested…" He trailed off, maybe waiting for her input. But the boy from Four – the one who had been holding the dagger – certainly hadn't seemed interested in actually joining the pack, no matter what the motive behind his actions had been. If he _was_ interested, wouldn't he have said so?

Maybe. Maybe not. But with the pack already this large, he certainly _should_ have taken the initiative if he'd wanted to be invited to join them. If he lost out on the opportunity because he hadn't acted soon enough, that was his problem – not hers. "I think seven is a good number," Mae answered, and that much was certainly true. Even in more recent years where districts had sent extra tributes, there hadn't been many packs larger than seven – and those that had grown larger than that hadn't lasted long. The larger the pack, the greater the risk of in-fighting, and that was something they couldn't afford.

"I guess that's settled, then," Justus concluded, and the others nodded along. No one seemed eager to offer another opinion on who should be included, and none of the other tributes had approached them wanting to join the pack. Mae glanced around at the other members of the pack as the seven of them headed off to the nearest weapons station.

Was it really going to be that easy?

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14  
** **District Two**

Was it really going to be that easy?

Darian glanced around at the rest of the Career pack as they approached the weapons stations. He had assumed that there would be some sort of test, some sort of requirement for those who wanted to be allowed into the Career pack – especially this year, with so many more options from Career districts. Instead, as they neared the sword station, Justus turned to the group. "Look, we've only got three days, and I don't think it's a secret that none of us are full-fledged Careers. I wasn't going to be the academy's pick this year, and I doubt anyone else was, either." He waited a moment, as if expecting someone to disagree.

No one did. Darian certainly wasn't going to pipe up. He probably wouldn't have _ever_ been the trainers' choice – and certainly not this year, when he was only fourteen. Two of the girls were even younger. The older pair from Five remained silent, as well, so Justus continued. "There's no point in reinventing the wheel here. Don't waste time with something you already know. Get out there and get as familiar as you can with everything you _don't_ know yet."

Etora shifted uncomfortably. "Aren't we going to…"

Justus turned. "What?"

"Shouldn't there be some sort of … standard? Don't you want to see who will cut it as members of the pack?"

"Is there someone you think wouldn't?" Justus asked pointedly, and Etora fell silent. They hadn't seen enough of each other's abilities for her to be able to single anyone else out as a weaker contender yet. Maybe that was why Justus had decided to press the issue now. Maybe he was worried about who others might see as the weakest link.

Darian held his breath for a moment. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that _he_ might be that weakest link. He didn't have much training. He was only fourteen. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that he was already a killer, and, despite Balthasar's advice, he didn't want to make a show of that. Not yet. Not unless he had to. And if the other Careers were planning to simply accept anyone who wanted to join the pack without question, he didn't really have a _reason_ to bring it up.

Not yet. He could save that for later. Maybe during the interviews. Maybe. Or maybe not. If it never came up … well, maybe that was for the best. He wasn't the cold-blooded killer that Balthasar thought he was – or wanted the _audience_ to think he was. He was just a kid who was in _way_ over his head.

Finally, Etora shook her head. "No. You're right. We should make the most of the time we have, get all the experience we can."

Darian silently breathed a sigh of relief. If the other Careers had decided to hold some sort of test, would he have passed? Would _any_ of them? What if none of them were up to standard? Maybe it was better that they _didn't_ know as much about each other as some of them might have liked. Maybe it was better if they didn't know each other's weaknesses.

Maybe he would be safer that way.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

Maybe he thought it would be safer this way.

Mac turned to Justus as the other Careers headed off towards various weapons stations. "So which one are you protecting?"

Justus raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

Mac shrugged. "Well, I think it's pretty obvious _you_ would make the cut if you decided to hold some sort of tryouts to see who could cut it as part of the Career pack. You'd have nothing to lose from a quick demonstration – unless it's one of your district partners who isn't up to snuff. So which one is it?"

Justus shook his head. "Sharp … but wrong. The problem with a quick demonstration is just that – it's quick. It's decisive, but it could also be misleading. Which skills do we choose to place value on in determining who gets cut? Where do we draw the line? It might start off as something quick and easy, but it could end up being drawn out over three days of training. We'd lose valuable time and gain … what?"

"Information?" Mac ventured.

"Some," Justus admitted. "But nothing that we couldn't learn simply by watching and listening. Besides, there are only seven of us to begin with. If we start making cuts—"

"Six is still a strong pack," Mac pointed out.

Justus nodded. "And if I was certain it would only bring us down to six, I might have made a different call. But can you give me a definitive place to draw a line that would be certain to only cut one of them? And can you guarantee that if we cut one of District Two's tributes, the other won't follow? Or that if your district partner is out, the two of you wouldn't decide to go off and form your own pack? A pack of not-quite-Careers that could easily be as large as the Career pack, if enough of the others decided it was worth the risk?"

Mac's eyebrows shot up. Did he really think that she would leave if he decided Elliot didn't make the cut? "Do you really think others would leave?"

"I don't know," Justus admitted. "And that's the point. I don't _know_ , and neither do you. You don't know for sure what any of the others would do. This isn't a normal year. I haven't been training with my district partners for months after being chosen, and I'd wager you haven't either. We can't make the assumptions that people would normally make about full-fledged Careers."

"Some of us _are_ full-fledged Careers," Mac insisted. Or near enough.

"Not _enough_ of us," Justus countered. "Not enough to set the sort of rigorous standards normal Career packs can afford to hold each other to. For now, we'll have to take who we can get."

"And if they aren't good enough?"

Justus shrugged. "Then we'll find out soon enough. The ones who won't be able to cut it in the Games will be dead soon enough, anyway. Until then … it can't hurt to have a little extra padding. A few extra bodies between us and the tributes who would think that a smaller Career pack might make a tempting target."

Mac nodded a little. "You've really thought this through."

Justus chuckled. "I _talked_ it through with my mentors. They know what they're doing, you know."

Mac nodded reluctantly. That was part of the problem. _Everyone's_ mentors knew what they were doing – up to a point. But their mentors wouldn't be in the arena with them. The other tributes would.

And that was beginning to make her nervous.

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

All her pacing was beginning to make him nervous.

Elliot gripped Mac's shoulder as she passed him for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few minutes. How was he supposed to concentrate on carving a spear out of a piece of wood when she was constantly passing in and out of his field of vision? "Relax a little," he coaxed as she broke free from his grip. "It's okay. We're in the pack."

Mac shook her head. "That's it? You think that's it? Just make it into the pack, and we're good to go? He's _watching_ us, Elliot."

"Who?"

"Justus."

Elliot glanced up. The boy from One was, in fact, facing them … but only because they happened to be in the same general direction as the target that he was throwing a few knives at. "And now we're watching him," Elliot pointed out. "What's the problem?"

Mac glared. "You don't get it, do you? He may be _acting_ like he doesn't care about how much we know, _acting_ like he needs all of us, but he's still watching for weaklings. For people who don't know what they're doing."

"But you _do_ know what you're doing," Elliot pointed out. Then, with a grin, he added, "Right?"

"Of _course_ I do!" Mac snapped. "But what if he _thinks_ I don't?"

"What if he does?" Elliot reasoned. "What's he going to do? If he's going to start kicking people out of the pack, there wouldn't be many people left by the time he got around to singling you out. What are you worried he's going to do?"

"I … I don't know," Mac admitted.

"Exactly. There's nothing he _can_ do – not without splitting the pack apart completely. He won't want to do that for a good long while yet. And by the time it comes to that, you'll either have proven him wrong, or you'll be dead. No worries, right?"

Right. No worries. No worries about the fact that they might be dead long before the Career pack would split up. Because if _Mac_ was worried, if she thought that _she_ didn't measure up, then what did that say about where _he_ stood in the pack? He had less training than she did – much less. Maybe less than any of the other members. Had he made a mistake when he'd decided to join the pack in the first place?

Elliot shook the thought from his head. He'd wanted to join the pack _because_ they had more experience than he did. There was no point in teaming up with someone who was _less_ capable. He was doing what everyone was trying to do – find allies who would help him survive, rather than slow him down. And the other Careers – even the younger ones – certainly weren't going to slow him down.

Mac begrudgingly stopped pacing long enough to pick up a spear and heave it towards a target. It struck a little to the left of the center, but maybe that was where she had been aiming. Maybe not. Either way, it was certainly better than he could have done. But that was what Justus had told them to do – find something they _didn't_ already know. But Mac didn't seem interested in listening to that advice.

Maybe she had the right idea.

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18  
** **District Two**

"Looks like we had the right idea."

Margo glanced up from the fire she'd finally managed to start. One of her district partners, Mae, took a seat next to her. "Right idea about what?" Margo asked.

"About not trying to team up with the Career pack," Mae answered simply, nodding towards where their younger district partners were practicing at the weapons stations, along with three of the tributes from One and the older pair from Five. "Looks like they've already got quite a group."

"That it does," Margo agreed. What was Mae trying to suggest? "Are you saying you thought about it – trying to join up with them?"

"Crossed my mind," Mae answered.

Margo couldn't help a smirk. "Have you even trained at all?"

"Not much," Mae admitted. "But I'd reckon not all of them have much training, either. Look at how Darian's holding that dagger."

"What about it?"

"He looks like he's waiting for someone to attack him."

"So … he looks ready to defend himself? What's wrong with that?"

Mae picked up one of the twigs from near Margo's fire and twirled it in her fingers. "Watch. Wait just a moment…"

Margo watched, and the trainer who was sparring with Darian quickly found an opening. "He's holding the dagger too close," Margo realized.

Mae nodded. "Not enough range of movement – dangerous for anyone, but especially if your reach isn't as long to begin with."

Margo chuckled a little. "Like us."

"Exactly," Mae agreed. "Technique over brute strength – that's what Mortimer told me."

Margo hesitated. "That's what my sister always says. I'm surprised Mortimer—"

"Oh, I'm sure he'd prefer to have _both_ ," Mae chuckled. "But I think he's warming up to me. How are things with Harriet?"

"Not bad," Margo answered vaguely. Harriet was the one who had suggested she start out at the survival stations, which seemed to be good advice so far.

"From what Mortimer tells me, they're used to working together," Mae ventured. "He and Harriet, that is. Having mentors who are used to working with each other – approaching sponsors together and the like – that could be useful if…"

"If we were allies?" Margo asked. That was what she was trying to get at, wasn't it? But why had it taken her forever to get there? Maybe she didn't want to seem too eager. Maybe she had thought it would seem suspicious. Or maybe … maybe she wanted Margo to think it had been her idea.

"Do you want to be?" Mae asked.

Margo hesitated. She _did_ want allies. And she certainly didn't want to spend three days of training mulling over her options. But she didn't want to rush into anything…

"Tell you what," she suggested, throwing a few more sticks onto her fire. "Let's try out a few stations together, see how it goes. If we still want to, we can make it official. If not … no harm done, right?"

Mae nodded. "Right."

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature."_


	22. Training: The Nearest Way

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And here's our second batch of tributes.

* * *

 **Training Day One – Afternoon  
** **The Nearest Way**

* * *

 **Leonardo Choi, 18  
** **District Two**

This was exactly what Vester had told him not to do.

Leo shook his head as he sewed a few more stitches into the dummy's leg. He didn't _care_ what Vester had said about getting too comfortable at one station. He had spent the whole morning at the first aid station, and it felt _good._ It felt – for a moment – like he might be able to do something in the arena to _help_ someone rather than hurt them. That was what he wanted – to help someone, to do some good before the end. That would make it worth it.

Wouldn't it?

"Is anyone sitting here?" a voice asked.

Leo glanced up, surprised, to see one of the younger boys from Nine. That wasn't so surprising in and of itself, of course; Vester had told him that outer-district tributes usually gravitated towards the survival stations on the first day. What was surprising was that there _had_ been someone sitting there not ten minutes before – the _same_ someone, in fact. "I think _you_ were," Leo answered cautiously.

The boy cocked his head. "I was?"

"Yes."

"Huh." The boy plopped down beside him. "I'm Barlen. What's your name?"

"Leo."

"District Nine."

"District Two."

The boy's eyes grew wide. "You're a Career?"

Leo chuckled a little. "No."

"So what're you doing here?"

"No volunteers this year – remember?"

"Really? That's rough. I wonder if someone would've volunteered for me – if they could have, I mean."

Leo couldn't help a smile. "I'm sure they would have."

"Really?"

No. No, he wasn't sure. Because even when volunteers were allowed, so many younger children still ended up in the Games. But there was something about this boy – something a bit _off_. Would his district really have sent him into the Games if they'd had any sort of say in the matter?

And even if it wasn't true, there was no harm in a little white lie if it helped the boy feel a bit less terrified. "I think someone would have. But I guess we're both here now."

"I guess so." They boy leaned in a little closer. "What're you working on?"

"Suturing a leg wound."

"Wow. Sounds tough."

Leo couldn't help a smile. "Want me to teach you?"

"Really?"

"Why not?" He took two more dummies' legs and made incisions in both, then handed one to Barlen. "All right. Let's start off simple. First thing you want to do is thread this needle. If you don't _have_ a needle, you look for something similar – something sharp and smooth that you can attach the thread to. Maybe a porcupine quill or a spine from a sea urchin or something like that."

"Do you think there will be any of those in the arena?"

"No way of knowing, really," Leo admitted. "But there'll probably be something sharp."

"What if you don't have any thread?"

Leo shrugged. "You've always got thread. Sometimes you just need to look for it." He took the knife and made a small cut in the end of his sleeve, then unraveled a little bit of the thread. "See? Thread."

Barlen smiled, then did the same with his own shirt. As he rolled up his sleeve, Leo caught a glimpse of something – something written on the inside of the boy's wrist.

 _You're in the Hunger Games._

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

 _You're in the Hunger Games._

Barlen quickly rolled his sleeve back down. No matter how many times he saw the note he'd written for himself, it didn't quite seem real. At least, he assumed it hadn't felt any more real than it did now. Despite everything around him – the training stations, the other tributes, the trainers, the weapons – it was still hard to believe. _He'd_ been chosen for the Hunger Games. _He_ was going to be in the arena.

He was probably going to die.

Tears came to Barlen's eyes at the thought. He couldn't even remember the reaping – not really. He remembered someone – an older boy, he was pretty sure – helping him get to the stage. But aside from that, it was all a blur. How was he supposed to remember what he was doing once he was in the Games?

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Barlen? Are you all right?"

Barlen shook his head. "No. I … I'm sorry. What was your name?"

"Leo."

"And you're … my mentor?" he guessed.

Leo shook his head. "No. I'm another tribute, but I … I'm your friend, Barlen. Your ally, if you'll have me."

Barlen wiped the tears from his eyes. "Really? You mean it?"

"Of course."

Barlen removed the pen from his pocket. "Do you mind if I…?"

"Write that down? Of course not. Go ahead."

Barlen couldn't help a smile as he wrote himself a note, in smaller letters, below his other message. _Leo = Friend._ "Is that all right?"

Leo nodded. "It's perfect. Now, what do you say we fix up these legs? Got your needle threaded?"

Barlen glanced down at the needle. He didn't remember threading it, but apparently he had. "I guess so."

"Great. Now, you want to hold the skin together like this. Not too tight or anything. You don't want it to bunch up. Just close enough to be touching, and try to keep them on the same level."

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that. Now, it's better if you have some sort of tweezers to hold onto the needle, but chances are, you're not going to have anything like that. So just try to hold it as still as you can."

Right. Just hold it still. That was easy enough when they were practicing on a dummy, but once they were in the arena, if he was actually stitching up another person – or stitching up _himself_ – would he really be able to hold still enough? "What if the other person isn't holding still?" he asked.

"Try to calm them down," Leo answered matter-of-factly. "Not exactly the easiest thing to do, but if you can get them talking about something else – something that has nothing to do with whatever happened to them – that can help. If that doesn't work, you can always try singing."

"Singing?"

"Nothing too rambunctious, of course. Just something soft and soothing. Like a lullaby."

Barlen shook his head. "I … I don't know any lullabies. Not that I remember, at least."

"You could always make one up," Leo offered. "Chances are, no one from another district is going to know the difference."

Barlen nodded a little. "Have you … have you done this before?"

"Plenty. I'm in training to be a nurse."

"Really? I didn't know they had nurses in District Two."

Leo chuckled a little. "You don't really think the whole district is full of Careers just fighting each other for fun all day, do you?"

"I don't know," Barlen admitted. He _had_ always pictured District Two a bit like that. But Leo was different. He was _nice_.

Barlen just hoped he wouldn't have to kill him.

* * *

 **David Abadi, 14  
** **District Twelve**

"I'm glad he found someone."

David glanced up from the plants he was sorting. "Who found someone?"

Ti pointed over towards the first aid station. "Barlen. Looks like he's working with one of the kids from District Two, of all places."

David shrugged. "Not so strange, really. Not with everyone being reaped and all. No Careers, so not everyone from District Two is going to be … well, like they usually are."

"Brutal?" Ti offered. "Bloodthirsty?"

David nodded. "Yeah. Like that. And if he's over at the first aid station, there's probably not much to worry about."

Ti nodded. "True. Still, I'm glad he found an ally."

David threw a few more plants into one of his piles. "I said earlier if you wanted to invite him, it was fine."

Ti shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant. I didn't mean I wanted him to join _us_ – just that I'm glad he's not going to end up alone. But we made the right choice not inviting him."

 _We_. It had been an easy choice, settling down at one of the knife stations with Ti in the morning. Orphelia had started the day with them, but had quickly branched off on her own, and from the look of things, she probably wasn't coming back. She was over at the spear station along with the older boy from Eleven.

Meanwhile, he and Ti had flitted from station to station ever since, picking up a little bit of this and a little bit of that. There was just so much to _do_. So many things to try. So many things that could save their lives in the arena, if only they could remember all of it.

Which was the advantage of there being two of them, of course. He wouldn't have to remember everything by himself. And Ti seemed like good company. Not that many of the tributes seemed like _bad_ company, of course – aside from the obvious. The Careers and a few of the older tributes who seemed a bit more intimidating, maybe. But for the most part, the others just seemed … normal.

David threw the last of the plants he was sorting into the second pile – the edible one. At least, he was pretty sure these were the edible ones. He looked up at the trainer, who was watching them curiously. "How'd we do?"

The trainer chuckled a little as Ti finished sorting his own plants. "How do _you_ think you did?"

"I think we got them right," Ti offered immediately.

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

The trainer smirked. "Sure enough to bet your life?" She scooped up a handful of berries from Ti's edible pile.

"I…" Ti hesitated, but then seemed to notice that David was watching him. "Of course." He grabbed the handful of berries from the trainer and stuffed them in his mouth. "See?"

The trainer chuckled a little and reached into a bag at her side. "You might want this."

"What's that?"

"It'll keep them from breaking out in some pretty nasty blisters. Just because something won't _kill_ you doesn't mean it's good for you. Try to remember that."

Ti quickly took the medicine she'd offered, washing it down with a glass of water from the fishing station nearby. "Thanks. I will."

The trainer nodded. "I hope so."

* * *

 **Ti Bulgur, 14  
** **District Nine**

"I hope you don't do anything like that once you're in the arena."

Ti whirled around in time to see one of the boys from Five watching him. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

The younger boy nodded. "For now. She's right, though. Just because something doesn't kill you doesn't mean it's a good idea. Especially if you're only doing it to impress someone."

"I wasn't trying to impress—" Ti took a step back. What was the boy trying to imply? "I just wanted to see if I was right!"

"And if you'd been wrong?"

"Then I'd be dead." Would he? Would the trainer really have let him eat something poisonous before they were even in the arena? What happened if a tribute accidentally killed themselves during training? He'd never heard of that happening before, but with so many pointy objects around, it wasn't an impossibility.

The younger boy shook his head. "That would bother most people."

Ti shrugged. "I'm not most people." The thought of dying _did_ scare him, of course, but damned if he was going to admit it to this little kid.

"I see."

David took a step between them. "I'm David. This is Ti. And you are…?"

"Retro Liu. District Five."

Ti snorted. "Like _that's_ something to be proud of."

Retro shook his head. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot."

David shrugged. "Hey, no harm done. Want to join us?"

Retro hesitated. "You mean join you at the station, or … or in the arena?"

"Both, if you like," David offered, ignoring Ti's expression. "The more, the merrier."

Great. Just great. Ti had managed to talk David out of inviting Barlen into their group, but now he wanted to invite a cheeky little twelve-year-old? "Look, Retro," Ti started. "I'm sure you're a nice kid, but—"

"I think that should be in the other pile," Retro commented, pointing to one of the roots that David had thrown in the edible pile. "Why don't you ask about that one?"

David turned to the trainer. "This is edible, right?"

The trainer smiled a little and shook her head. "I know it _looks_ a lot like this one." She held up another very similar-looking root. "But there are little bumps here on this kind that give it away. Your friend was right."

 _He's not our friend._ Ti almost said it out loud, but he stopped himself in time. Why didn't he want Retro as an ally? Was it because he was younger than them? Or was it only because he'd shown them up? Having an ally who knew a little bit more about plants than them was a _good_ thing, wasn't it?

Finally, Ti nodded. "All right. You can stay."

David clapped Ti on the back. "That's the spirit."

Ti turned to Retro. "So where'd you learn so much about plants in District Five?"

"In school."

"They teach you about plants in school?" He couldn't remember learning anything about what was edible or not in school.

Retro nodded. "Not until recently, but once we started training Careers, they figured school was a good way to work in some of the things that might not be taught while they're fighting at the academy. A bit about plants, a bit about survival. Not much, compared to what the Careers probably know, but enough to be useful."

Enough to be useful. He was trying to make a case for being allowed to join the group. Ti nodded, clapping his new ally on the back.

"Let's hope it's as useful once we're in the Games."

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

He hoped he wouldn't be as jittery once he was actually in the Games.

Merrik shook his head as he put the finishing touches on a snare, his hands still shaking nervously. What were the chances that he would actually be _more_ relaxed in an arena where everything and everyone was trying to kill him? No, it was probably better to get used to being nervous now, when it wouldn't literally kill him to freak out a little.

"Think it's ready?" the trainer asked, and Merrik nodded. The trainer stepped a little to the right, which should have sprung the trap. Nothing.

Another step, then another. "Damn it," Merrik muttered.

"That wire's too loose," came a voice from the other side of the station. A girl pointed to the wire closest to his left hand. "Pull that a little tighter, and maybe try looping it around – yeah, there you go. Try it now."

The trainer nodded a little as Merrik reset the trap. "That should do it." He took another step, and this time, a net came tumbling down on top of his head. "Nice."

"Thanks," Merrik mumbled as the girl came over to join him, helping the trainer remove himself from the trap in the process.

"Not a problem." She held out her hand. "I'm Lena."

"Merrik." He shook her hand as quickly as he could, hoping to hide the fact that his hands were still trembling.

"Is anyone else working here? Besides you, I mean. I mean, is it okay if I join you?"

Merrik shook his head. "No one else is here, no."

"Great. I mean, it's not great that you're working alone, but … glad I can join you."

Merrik sighed. "Why don't you just ask?"

"Pardon?"

"Look, there are two ways this goes. We sit here and you try to make small talk until you work up the guts to ask if I want to be your ally, and we waste a bunch of time beating around the bush. Or you just ask and get it over with."

Lena flushed. "Was I that obvious?"

"You've been watching people at this station all day. I'm the first one you've come over and talked to. So … yes. It was pretty obvious." He shook his head. "But the answer is yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll be your ally, if that's what you want. And you wouldn't be asking if it wasn't what you wanted, so … yes."

Lena giggled a little. "Just like that?"

"Why not? You clearly know enough to help me out a bit with this trap. That has to count for something, right?" He studied her for a moment. "But why me?"

"What?"

"Well, like I said, you've been watching people at this station all day, but I'm the first one you've actually talked to. So why'd you pick me?"

Lena settled down next to him. "You've been sitting here at this same station all day, trying to make sure you get it right. Everyone else – they're trying to snatch up a little bit of everything that they can, make sure they get it all in. You're more worried about getting everything _right_." She smiled.

"I like that."

* * *

 **Lena Khatri, 16  
** **District Six**

She couldn't help wondering if he could tell it was a lie.

Lena glanced up at Merrik occasionally as the two of them continued to work. It wasn't an outright _lie_ , maybe, but it was only partly true. The fact that he seemed so determined to get things right instead of doing them fast _was_ part of the reason she'd come over to talk to him. But it wasn't the _only_ reason. The real reason was a bit more embarrassing than that: he wasn't as intimidating as some of the other options.

A lot of the other tributes who had stopped at the station already had an ally or two. One of the Career groups had even come by. Merrik, on the other hand, had been alone until she'd taken it upon herself to join him. It was nearly the end of the first day of training, and he hadn't seemed particularly interested in finding anyone to work with. Which either meant that he'd decided to go it alone, or that he was waiting for someone to ask him, instead.

And if he was waiting for someone to ask _him_ rather than the other way around, that meant he was more likely to say yes to whoever _did_ happen to ask him. She certainly didn't want to waste her time seeking out an alliance with someone who was just going to turn her down. And when she'd noticed he needed a little help...

That had been the deciding factor, really. He'd needed a little help. A little nudge. Something in the back of her mind had tried to tell her that this was exactly what her mentors would tell her _not_ to do. But it wasn't as if he'd had no idea what he was doing at all. He'd just needed help with a few of the details to get it right. There was nothing wrong with that. _Everyone_ needed a little help now and then.

Especially her, if she wanted to make it out of the Games alive. She was going to need help, and Merrik … He seemed like someone who would be willing to pitch in and lend a hand. Maybe not someone who would be tremendously useful in a physical fight, but neither was she. There was no way she was going to win this thing by brute force. But maybe she could think her way through it.

"Lena?"

Lena looked up, startled. "What?"

"That was the bell," Merrik answered. "It's the end of training – for today, at least. See you back here tomorrow?"

Lena nodded. "Count on it." The other tributes were already starting to file out of the training room and back to their separate floors for dinner. Lena couldn't help a smile at the thought of another Capitol dinner. Whatever she might not like about the Capitol, she couldn't complain about their food.

Merrik raised an eyebrow. "What are you smiling for?"

"Just looking forward to dinner tonight. You?"

Merrik shook his head. "I guess that's something."

Lena nodded. "Of course it's something. It's called the _Hunger_ Games, after all. Might as well eat as much food as we can now, while it's still an option." She clapped him on the back as she headed for the elevator. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Things were already beginning to look a little better.

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way."_


	23. Training: Ambition

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games

 **Note:** Started Camp NaNoWriMo yesterday, so hopefully this month will be more productive than the last one.

* * *

 **Training Day Two – Morning  
** **Ambition**

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

They probably expected him to be better than this.

Consus tried to ignore the other tributes as he made his way back to the spear station he'd spent most of his time at the day before. It had seemed like a reasonable place to start for someone who wasn't certain he would be able to get his hands on a weapon right away. Spears could be made out of pretty much anything, in theory.

But only in theory. He'd learned pretty quickly that the makeshift spears he might be able to construct wouldn't really hold up well against the real thing. Against an unarmed tribute, sure. But if he could find something to use as a spear tip, and he came up against a tribute who had nothing, he was probably better off just trying to stab them with the pointed object than trying to make a spear out of it in the first place.

Still, he had to start somewhere, and the trainer had been … well, _patient_. That had been a nice change of pace from some of the trainers at other stations, who had immediately assumed that just because he was from District One, he already had some idea of what he was doing. It didn't help that all of his district partners had decided to join the Career pack.

Consus glanced over at where Justus, Mae, and Genevieve had gathered with the other Careers to start their training for the day. Stellar had suggested on the train that he might be able to bluff his way into making them think he had some training, but he knew better. Maybe that would work for a tribute who had _some_ training and just wanted to pretend they had more. But for someone who had _none_ … No. No, he was better off being honest – both with the other tributes and with himself. He would never cut it in the Career pack.

"Nice spear."

Consus nearly jumped as he turned to see one of the girls from Four behind him. "Sorry," she apologized immediately. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Consus shook his head. "It's okay. Just startled me. My fault for not paying attention, I guess. I'll have to be more careful."

The girl shrugged. "At least you're learning that now, before everyone's going to try to kill us."

Consus nodded. "I guess so. I'm Consus."

"Aleyn."

"I take it you know a thing or two about spears."

Aleyn shrugged. "Not really."

"But you said—"

"I just meant it looked nice. I wouldn't really know the difference between … What's so funny?"

Consus couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Nothing."

"No, really. What is it?"

"It's just that I was getting frustrated with the trainers for assuming I knew what I was doing because I'm from One … and here I am doing the same thing. I'm sorry."

Aleyn shrugged. "Don't be. If you assumed I know what I'm doing, maybe some of the other tributes will, too, and leave us alone."

Consus nodded. "I hadn't really thought about it like that."

"Are you sure that's what you want?" asked a voice from behind them.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15  
** **District Four**

She'd thought she'd been paying better attention.

Aleyn whirled around, surprised, to face one of the boys from Eleven, who had apparently snuck up on the pair of them while they were chatting. Consus recovered his wits first. "Are we sure _what's_ what we want?"

"For the other tributes to leave you alone because you seem to know what you're doing," the boy answered casually. "I mean, if you _know_ what you're doing, that's fine, I guess. But if you don't … Well, isn't it better to get a little help?"

Aleyn couldn't hide a smile. "I guess both of us just figured no one would want to help us because…"

"Because what?"

"Because we're Careers," Consus blurted out. "Or, at least, everyone seems to be assuming we are, because we're from Career districts. And Career districts always have a great reputation with the Capitol, but … well, not with the other tributes."

"And Four doesn't exactly have a great reputation with _either_ ," Aleyn added. Ever since the fiasco during the 41st Games, District Four had lost a lot of its supporters in the Capitol. Even Imalia's victory the year after hadn't been enough to win them back over. But the outer districts still saw them as Careers, nonetheless.

The boy from Eleven shook his head. "I think you're overthinking it a bit."

Aleyn cocked her head. "How do you mean?"

The boy shrugged. "Well, anyone who wouldn't want to be your ally just because of your district probably isn't someone you would _want_ as an ally in the first place. Your last Victor, Imalia, ended up allying with a couple outer-district tributes – including a boy from Eleven, right?"

"And the girl from Ten," Consus agreed. "Didn't turn out so well for either of them, though."

"We're not them," the other boy pointed out. "Or, at least, we don't have to be." He held out his hand. "I'm Wes."

Aleyn shook it. "Aleyn. This is Consus. Want to join us?"

Wes hesitated. "At this station, or…?"

"Or in the Games, too," Aleyn offered. She and Consus hadn't officially declared an alliance, either, but something about this felt … right. Wes had approached them, after all. And it sounded like he had been offering to help. But what if he hadn't been? What if she was getting ahead of herself and scared him away, instead? What if Consus didn't agree with her offer? What if—

"Sounds good to me," Consus echoed before she could second-guess herself any farther. He held out his hand to Wes. "What do you say?"

Wes beamed. "I guess I just didn't expect it to be quite this easy. Are you sure?"

Consus nodded as Wes shook his hand. "I'm sure."

"Me, too," Aleyn agreed. "What do you say we try making some more of these?" She reached down, picked up one of Consus' makeshift spears, and heaved it towards the target. It struck the dummy in the legs – but not hard enough to cause any damage.

"Might want to aim higher," Wes chuckled.

Aleyn giggled. "I was _trying_ to. It's just a bit far away."

Consus shrugged. "Isn't that where we'd want the other tributes, though? A safe distance away while we're trying to throw things at them."

The trainer nodded. "To a point, yes. But you also want them to be close enough that you'll actually be able to _hit_ them, or you're just throwing away a weapon." He turned to Aleyn. "So let's see if we can figure out what that perfect distance is, shall we?" Aleyn couldn't help a smile.

Maybe this wasn't quite as bad as she'd thought.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

"Looks like Wes has found someone better to work with."

Shanali looked up from the arrows she was gathering off the floor. A few of them had hit the target this time, which was a few more than the day before. Kilian pointed at Wes, who seemed to be working with a pair of younger Careers. Shanali shrugged. Their district partner had avoided the two of them ever since the train ride. Maybe he thought he wouldn't measure up to their standards. Maybe they didn't measure up to his.

It didn't matter, really. Not all district partners were going to work well together. He'd gone his own way, and they had gone theirs. No hard feelings. Besides, that was what would have to happen in the Games eventually, no matter what alliances the three of them had ended up with. Maybe it was better that it had happened now.

Kilian, on the other hand, had been content to follow her lead. They'd spent the previous day moving from weapons station to weapons station, trying to get a feel for what might be useful. Despite Kilian's insistence that it would be difficult, she'd wanted to try the archery station. And it _was_ hard, at least at first. But she was starting to get the hang of it. And there was something to be said for being able to kill an opponent from a distance rather than waiting until they got close enough for a fight.

"Guess that means he won't be working with us," Kilian pointed out.

Shanali looked up. "Look, what are you getting at?"

Kilian shook his head. "I was just thinking it might be good to find another ally or two, rather than just … well, just the two of us."

"What's wrong with just the two of us?"

"Nothing, but look around."

Shanali glanced around the training area, but she knew where he was going without having to. Larger groups were already starting to form. Groups of three or four, not to mention the pack of seven Careers. A pair of tributes from District Eleven – even a pair of older tributes – might make a tempting target if they chose to go it alone. Shanali nodded. "Did you have someone in mind?"

Kilian nodded towards the station next to them, where one of the boys from Four was throwing axes at a target. Most of them had met the same fate as the majority of her arrows – clattering to the floor after hitting the target askew, or not reaching it in the first place. But the few of them that had stuck had stuck deep in the target. "He doesn't seem to have a group yet," Kilian observed.

Shanali hesitated. "He's a Career."

Kilian shrugged. "He's from Four. Doesn't make him a Career even in a normal year. _Especially_ not this year. And look at Wes. He's working with a girl from Four."

"A _younger_ girl from Four," Shanali pointed out, but Kilian had a point. The boy probably wasn't a Career. If he was, there would be a lot more axes in that target. "All right. So do we just … go up and ask him?"

Kilian glanced around. "I … I'm not sure, really. We just sort of started working together." But _they_ were from the same district. Approaching someone else was different. How were they supposed to ask for an alliance without seeming desperate, or without scaring him away?

What were they supposed to do?

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

Maybe it would be better to just go over and ask them.

Ronan glanced over at the pair of tributes from Eleven, who were whispering to each other again. The boy had been watching him earlier, maybe deciding whether or not to ask him to join them. Ronan had been waiting for them to make the first move. There were two of them and only one of him, after all. But something was making them hesitate.

Maybe it was the fact that he was from a Career district. Maybe they were hesitant to approach someone they assumed was better prepared than they were. But plenty of the other tributes already seemed to be working with Career-district tributes, including one of his district partners. The other boy from Eleven was at the spear station with Aleyn and the younger boy from One. Arabel was on the other side of the archery station, along with one of the boys from Ten. Ronan heaved another axe at the target, this one striking close to the edge. If they weren't going to make the first move…

As soon as he turned and started heading in their direction, they quickly did the same. "Saw you watching," Ronan grinned. "You like that last throw?"

"Not bad," the girl agreed. "I'm Shanali, and this is Kilian. You're Ronan, right?"

Ronan nodded. "Nice of you to bother finding someone's name out before proposing an alliance."

Kilian raised an eyebrow. "An alliance?"

Ronan shrugged. "Well, I'm just assuming you didn't come over here to talk about the weather."

Shanali smirked. "Maybe we were just being friendly."

"I think you have more sense than that," Ronan chuckled. "No one is just being friendly in the Games. No one who wants to last long, anyway."

"Being polite never hurt anyone," Kilian pointed out.

"Maybe not," Ronan agreed. "But there's a difference between being polite and being social."

"Thought the sponsors liked tributes who were social," Shanali chuckled.

"The sponsors like tributes who _kill_ ," Ronan corrected. "Everything else is a distant second. _Everything_. You can be the flashiest, most likable tribute on camera, but if you're not willing to do what has to be done, you'll eventually lose the audience's support."

Kilian nodded. "Well, then, we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen."

"We?" Ronan teased.

"If you're accepting our proposal," Shanali finished.

Ronan smirked, dropping down on one knee. "Why, darling, I don't think we've known each other quite long enough for a _proposal_."

Shanali giggled. Kilian clapped Ronan on the back. "I think you'll do just fine."

"I certainly hope so," Ronan agreed. "Now … back to your station or back to mine?"

"Back to yours, I think – at least for a little while," Kilian suggested. "Archery's all well and good, but it's really only useful if you can get your hands on a bow, and who knows how many of those there will be."

Ronan nodded. "Usually not many, if any at all, and the Careers usually snatch them up pretty quickly. So knowing how to throw something else would probably be useful."

Kilian turned to Shanali, who nodded reluctantly. "Just when I was getting good, too."

Ronan clapped her on the shoulder. "We can head back there later, if you like. And there's always tomorrow."

"Not always," Shanali pointed out. "Not for all of us, at least."

Ronan chuckled. "Well, you're a ray of sunshine." But she wasn't wrong. Eventually, they would run out of tomorrows. But there was nothing he could do about that right now. Nothing any of them could do about it. So that was a problem for another time.

A problem for tomorrow.

* * *

 **Arabel Ford, 15  
** **District Four**

She was supposed to be better than this.

Arabel pulled the string back again, almost ready to throw the bow down in frustration. She used to be better at this. But that was practicing with her friends in her yard, using a bow they'd made themselves, aiming at targets that had always _seemed_ so far away. It had seemed so real.

But not as real as this.

"You're doing great," Connor insisted, drawing back his own string and letting an arrow fly. His aim was worse, but he certainly had more raw strength. The sort of strength it took to pull the arrow back far enough to make it stick in the target when it hit rather than bouncing listlessly off.

"Sure," Arabel scoffed, shaking her head. "I'm doing great if the object is to hit the target half the time and have the arrow barely scratch the surface."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Connor insisted. "Once we're in the Games, if a tribute even _thinks_ you might know what you're doing with that thing, they'll turn and run the other way."

"That's if I manage to get one," Arabel pointed out. "Do you really think the Careers are planning to let a bow out of their sight?"

Connor shrugged. "Look, if you want to try something else—"

"Maybe in a little while," Arabel agreed. They'd spent most of the morning at the archery station after Connor had joined her there. "It'll probably be time for lunch soon. After that, we can try something different."

Connor nodded a little. "Speaking of lunch, there's … something I've been meaning to tell you."

"About lunch?"

"About my district partner. On the train, we sort of agreed to work together. Yesterday, we decided to visit different stations during training in order to cover more ground, get a feel for more stuff. I hit the weapons stations, and he took the survival stations."

"That doesn't seem fair."

Connor shrugged. "It was his idea. I figured maybe he'd want to swap halfway through or something, but he's seemed okay with sticking to the survival stuff, and I think I'm finally getting the hang of some of this."

Arabel nodded. "And you're telling me this because…"

"In case you wanted to join us. I just wanted to let you know that it's both of us, and as long as you're fine with that, we'd be happy to have you."

Arabel glanced around the room, searching for Connor's district partner. But she stopped, confused, when she spotted him already eating lunch at one of the tables in the corner. "There are only two of you, right? From District Ten?"

Connor nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

Arabel shrugged. "Because if that's him, it looks like he's already found someone else, too." The other boy with a '10' on his training outfit was sitting with one of the girls from Eight, and they certainly seemed like they had been talking together for a while.

Connor raised an eyebrow. "He didn't say anything about inviting someone else."

"Did you say anything to him about inviting me?" Arabel countered.

Connor shook his head. "No, but—"

"But what? Come on. Let's go sit with them. Strength in numbers, right?" A group of four wasn't unheard of, even outside of Career packs. It wasn't as if any of them were tributes the other Careers would consider a threat. Sure, she was from District Four, but her district partners had already found other tributes to work with.

What was the harm in having a few more allies than she'd expected?

* * *

 **Connor Sawyer, 15  
** **District Ten**

Maybe it would've been better if they'd stuck together at the start.

Connor held his tongue as he and Arabel made their way towards where Skyton was already sitting with one of the girls from Eight. Maybe it would've been better to stick together, present themselves as a group. A team. But they hadn't. It had been Skyton's idea to split up to tackle more stations, but he hadn't disagreed. He'd gone along with the idea.

And Arabel was right; he hadn't told Skyton anything about his decision to invite Arabel into their alliance. So maybe he had no reason to be upset that Skyton had apparently gone and done the same thing. Maybe Arabel was right about there being strength in numbers.

There was just one problem with that; the girl that Skyton had chosen didn't seem particularly _strong_. She was taller than him, but also skinny and frail-looking. Then again, Skyton had been training at the survival stations. Maybe the girl had some other sort of useful skills.

Maybe. Or maybe Skyton was just being kind. Maybe he'd just decided to befriend someone else who seemed nice, or who seemed like they needed help. Connor forced a smile as Skyton waved and gestured for the two of them to sit down and join him and the girl. There was only one way to find out.

"I guess you found an ally, too," Skyton observed, beating him to it. He held out a hand to Arabel. "I'm Skyton, and this is Klaudia."

"Arabel." She shook Skyton's hand, then held her hand out to Klaudia, who smiled shyly but shook it. Arabel turned back to Skyton. "Connor says you two split up to cover more stations. Smart."

Skyton blushed. "Thanks. I thought it was a better idea than following Connor around the weapons stations and not really trying anything."

 _Crap._ He'd been hoping Skyton wouldn't mention that part. It _had_ been Skyton's idea to split up, but only after he'd spent nearly an hour following Connor around, watching him try out various weapons. Every time Connor had tried to hand him one, Skyton had insisted that he was fine just watching. Connor had assumed he was simply embarrassed about his lack of skill, but what if Arabel assumed it was because he wasn't willing to fight?

He _would_ be willing to fight, wouldn't he?

Arabel cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing as Skyton continued. "Klaudia and I have been at the shelter-building station for a while, and I think we're finally getting the hang of it. We should be able to build a big enough shelter for the four of us once we're in the arena."

 _If we all make it that far_. But he didn't say it. They had to try to make this alliance work. If he backed out on Skyton now, it wouldn't be a stretch for Arabel to assume that he might do the same to her at any moment. After all, if he was willing to abandon an alliance with his district partner, why should anyone else expect his loyalty?

He just wished he'd realized on the train just how reluctant Skyton would be to actually participate. Knowing how to build a shelter was certainly useful, but when it came to _defending_ that shelter and protecting each other, would Skyton really be willing to do his part? The whole point of an alliance in the first place was to protect each other. If Skyton wasn't prepared to do that…

 _Stop it._ Maybe this wasn't an ideal group of allies. But they were the allies he had. And they were the allies he would have to try to keep alive, if he wanted to be able to defend himself against the other tributes. Older tributes, stronger tributes, tributes who _wouldn't_ hesitate to pick up a weapon and start a fight. Connor shook his head as he started in on his plate of food.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it."_


	24. Training: Play False

**Disclaimer:** The Hunger Games isn't mine.

 **Note:** Friendly reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll.

* * *

 **Training Day Two – Evening  
** **Play False**

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

Maybe he had been lying to himself all along.

Skyton drummed his fingers on the table as he continued eating. It had been impossible to miss Arabel's disappointed look when he'd voiced his reluctance to try any of the weapons stations. She was more focused on being able to defend herself against the other tributes. But if they could build a good enough shelter, they would be able to hide from the others for a while, at least. Until they got more comfortable, more used to the idea of being in the Games.

But Connor and Arabel already seemed to be perfectly comfortable with the idea. Or, at least, more comfortable than he was. Maybe that wasn't much of a feat, but it was something. And Klaudia … He wasn't really sure what she was thinking, how comfortable she was. She seemed a bit jittery, but whether she was nervous about the Games or whether she simply wasn't comfortable around other people, he wasn't entirely sure. She'd seemed to accept it when he'd told her he was working with Connor, but he hadn't expected Connor to bring back another ally, as well.

Maybe he should have seen it coming the moment they'd decided to split up. He hadn't wanted anything to do with weapons; Connor hadn't even wanted to check out the survival stations. Maybe it made sense that each of them would want to find someone else to work with. Maybe it would be better if they just split up.

But if they split up now…

Skyton glanced around at the other tributes. Some of them were watching. If their group split up now, would it mean the other tributes would mark each of their smaller groups as an easy target? If they split up, would Connor be sore about it? Would Connor come after Klaudia and him if they decided to break away?

No. No, it was better not to take the risk. Besides, having more allies certainly wouldn't hurt. If two of them were more familiar with weapons and two of them had learned about survival, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Connor and Arabel could protect them while he and Klaudia focused on finding food and building shelter. That certainly seemed more his area.

But it couldn't stay his area forever if he wanted to survive. Eventually, he would have to fight. He would have to be able to defend himself. How would he be able to do that if he hadn't even held a weapon during training? How would he be able to kill?

But he didn't _want_ to kill.

"Skyton?" Klaudia's timid voice shook him from his thoughts.

Skyton nearly jumped. "What?" Had she been asking him something?

Klaudia shrank away a little, and Skyton could feel his face growing red. He'd been a little louder than he'd intended. She had just startled him; that was all. But if he was this jumpy now…

They were _both_ this jumpy now. If she had pulled back when he'd raised his voice a little, what was she going to do when someone raised a weapon? "Sorry," Skyton apologized quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you. I guess I'm just a little … on edge."

A little. Right. Maybe that was only to be expected. They were a few days away from having to fight for their lives. A few days before every other tribute in the room would be trying to kill them. Maybe it was understandable to be a little bit jumpy.

So why did everyone else seem perfectly calm?

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

Maybe Skyton had been lying to her all along.

Klaudia looked away as Skyton continued to apologize. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he was just jumpy. Or maybe he had been fooling her all along, and had finally let himself slip – if only for a moment. Why, exactly, he would want to trick her, of all people, she wasn't sure. But people didn't always need a reason. Klaudia repeated her question quietly. "I was just wondering if you could pass the salt."

Skyton nodded, passing her the saltshaker. "I really am sorry I scared you."

 _You didn't scare me._ That was what she wanted to say. But, for a moment, he had. And maybe she _was_ just getting jumpy. Maybe she was being too cautious. But if he was this snappy now, before the Games had even started, things would only get worse once they were actually in the arena.

Connor and Arabel quickly finished the rest of their meal, then got up from the table. "See you later, I guess," Connor offered, clapping Skyton on the back. Skyton flinched away. Maybe he really was just as uneasy as she was. But what if he wasn't? Could she afford to take that risk?

Klaudia ate the rest of her meal in silence. If it turned out this alliance had been a mistake, she could always change her mind later. In the chaos during the bloodbath, surely no one would notice if she slipped away from the group. No one would miss her. Arabel and Connor had barely acknowledged her, and Skyton … Had she done something wrong? Had she embarrassed him, maybe?

She couldn't _think_ of anything she might have done wrong. Maybe this simply wasn't how he'd expected to introduce her to the others. Maybe Connor had caught him off-guard by bringing his own ally. Maybe. It could be a lot of things.

But there were also going to be 'a lot of things' in the Games. There were going to be surprises – surprises she wasn't certain he would be able to handle. If this was how he reacted to gaining an extra ally, how might he react to losing one?

She had a feeling she didn't want to find out.

"Are you all right?" Skyton asked quietly.

Klaudia hesitated. What was the right answer? She _wasn't_ all right, but she certainly didn't want to admit it. Were _any_ of them all right? "I was just thinking," she answered, deflecting. "I think we've got a pretty good handle on the shelter-building. Maybe we should try a different station for a while."

Skyton nodded. "Good idea. Did you have anything in mind?"

"I was thinking of taking a look at the edible plants," Klaudia suggested. "You probably have some idea of what's good to eat, but … well, there aren't a whole lot of plants in District Eight. If you don't want to join me, that's okay, but—"

"Of course I want to join you. Besides, you'd be surprised how little you actually learn about plants when your job is taking care of cows. I mean, I guess I could tell you what plants are good for _cows_ to eat, but it's not like I go around grazing with them, right?"

Klaudia giggled a little. "Good point."

"And there are plenty of plants that don't grow in District Ten," Skyton added. "We have no way of knowing what the arena's going to be, or what sort of plants there are. So you're right about not wanting to spend our whole time building shelters. No telling what sort of materials there will even _be_ in the arena to build a shelter with." He smiled a little and clapped her on the back.

"Let's go try something else."

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

"They're just lying to themselves."

Mariska glanced over at Vashti, who had taken a seat beside her. The pair of them had spent the first day at most of the same stations. They'd built traps, learned how to weave nets, constructed a few simpler weapons out of the rudimentary materials they might be able to find in the arena. They hadn't exactly been working _together_ , but they'd been working side-by-side pretty well for a day and a half now.

Mariska nodded. "About the alliance working out? I'm sure they are. But that's not your problem – or mine."

"Your district partner," Vashti pointed out. "If her alliance falls apart, all the better for you. It means your mentors will have to focus their efforts on you instead of her."

Mariska shrugged. "Pretty sure they're planning to anyway." Klaudia's father or grandfather or whoever he was had caused all that fuss at the reaping, after all – and gotten Lander hurt in the process. He certainly wasn't going to be trying to help her. And Carolina … well, it was her job to help Klaudia as long as she could. But once she was dead…

"I guess you've probably got a bit more trouble in that department," Mariska deflected with a smirk. "Not exactly much of a Career, are you?"

"Maybe not," Vashti admitted. "But at least I know it. Macauley and Elliot are going to run themselves ragged trying to convince themselves they belong in the pack. Retro, at least, has the sense to know that he'll never cut it, but the other two will probably end up doing something stupid and getting themselves killed. If I get lucky, I'll be District Five's only chance – for whatever that's worth."

Mariska nodded. She was probably District Eight's best chance, as well, considering that their other choice was Klaudia. But that still didn't mean she had _much_ of a chance. She wasn't kidding herself; there were thirty-four other tributes who would be trying to kill her in a few days. Tributes with homes, with families, with friends. Tributes who had something to go back to.

Mariska got up from the lunch table and headed back to the snare station. The only reason she would have had to look forward to going back to District Eight had died in the Games last year. The Games had taken Willa. They would probably take her, as well. Maybe there was no reason to fight it.

But she _was_ fighting it. Every day that she still woke up, every moment she resisted the urge to simply plop down near one of the food carts and spend the rest of her training time there, every breath she took once she was in the Games – it was all a struggle. It would always be a struggle. It would be easier to stop. Easier to let go and accept that the Capitol was going to win. That they _always_ won.

And they would. They always did. But there was a difference between rolling over and letting them win and going down swinging. If she was going to die – and she probably was – then she was going to make damn sure she didn't go down without a fight. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was all she had left.

Mariska turned to Vashti, who was still following her. "You seem pretty convinced their alliance won't work out. What do you think it takes to make one work?"

Vashti thought for a moment. "Honesty."

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

"Honesty?"

Vashti smiled wryly as Mariska raised an eyebrow. Clearly, that wasn't the answer she'd been expecting. "Not _that_ sort of honesty," Vashti clarified. "Not the _let me tell you my life story and spill all my secrets even though I've only known you for a day or two_ sort of honesty. Just enough honesty to say that you're not looking for an alliance because you actually _like_ the other person or because you want a friend. That's not what alliances are for. Alliances are for staying alive as long as possible – period."

As he'd expected, Mariska nodded. "Agreed. But not everyone can handle saying that upfront."

"Can you?"

"Can I what?"

"Handle the idea of making an alliance to stay alive rather than out of friendship."

"Are you suggesting something?"

Vashti shrugged. "That depends on your answer."

Mariska nodded. "Of course I can handle the idea. I'm not looking for a friend."

"Neither am I."

"Perfect." She held out her hand. "Allies?"

Vashti shook it. "Allies."

Allies. But not friends. He didn't need friends – especially not now. What he needed was someone who could keep him alive long enough for … What? Long enough to prove everybody wrong? Long enough to prove _himself_ wrong. He had no delusions that he would actually be able to win – not with his condition. Not when the smallest injury could take him out of the game for good.

 _A dead man walking._ That was what he had called himself at the reaping. And he had believed it. Still believed it. He didn't _want_ to die, but he wasn't going to lie to himself. Wasn't going to give himself false hope. There was no way he was coming out of that arena alive. Maybe it would be better to simply give up now, to take one of those blades and pretend to have a little accident. Just a little one. That was all it would take.

It would certainly be easier.

But he didn't. Instead, he sat down by Mariska at the snare station. Because as hopeless as things seemed – as hopeless as things _were_ – he didn't want to die. He wanted to live. There was so much he still hadn't done. So much he still wanted to do. He would fight for that. And he would probably die fighting for it.

Probably. Almost certainly. But there was a tiny sliver of hope, however slim. A sliver that he had to hold onto.

Vashti held back a sigh as he settled down by Mariska, who was already sprawled out on the floor, trying to get a good angle for the next trap she was trying to construct. "Too obvious," he volunteered before she'd laid more than a few pieces. "Anyone with half a brain would see it."

Mariska shrugged. "Well, good thing not every tribute _has_ half a brain."

"Touche. But the ones who are going to walk right into a trap like that probably aren't the ones we have to worry about."

"We have to worry about _everyone_ ," Mariska reminded him. "Even the thickest tributes can get lucky. Not everyone who's won the Games has been a genius."

That was certainly true. District Five had a tendency to take its Victors' intelligence for granted, but it was true that some Victors had simply gotten lucky. All it took was a split second, a quick decision, a bit of luck one way or the other.

He would have to keep that in mind.

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18  
** **District Three**

"Honest? You want _me_ as an ally?"

Dinah couldn't quite believe her ears. She'd been hoping that someone would ask, of course, but it still came as a surprise. It was almost the end of the second day of training, after all, and no one had approached her yet. She'd thought about asking several of the other tributes, but someone always seemed to get there first. And she didn't want to jump into an alliance that had already formed. Latecomers were usually more likely to break off from the alliance early on because even the audience didn't consider them the _core_ members.

Not that the audience got to see how the tributes behaved during training. They didn't witness the alliances forming firsthand. But the subject tended to come up during the interviews, or during discussions in the Games themselves. And the first couple members of the alliance were usually the closest, the most trusting of each other.

So when the girl from Twelve smiled back at her and nodded matter-of-factly, Dinah couldn't help smiling in return. "Of course," Orphelia answered. "Is that really so surprising?"

There didn't seem to be a good answer to that. If she admitted that it _was_ a surprise, Orphelia would undoubtedly wonder why. She was one of the older tributes, after all. One of the stronger tributes, maybe, aside from the Careers. Why _wouldn't_ someone want her as an ally?

But if she said that – that she _wasn't_ surprised – then would she come across as overly cocky? Maybe. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Orphelia had already proposed the alliance, after all. Obviously, she saw something in Dinah. Dinah shrugged off the question with a smile. "I guess not. Just a surprise that you would be so up-front about it. I expected a little more … well, subtlety."

"I guess that makes sense," Orphelia agreed. "I just figured … well, two days of training are almost over. We'll be in the Games soon, and I don't…"

"You didn't want to end up alone in the arena," Dinah finished.

"Exactly."

"Makes sense," Dinah agreed. "And it sounds pretty good to me, too."

"Really? You mean it?"

Dinah smirked. "Is _that_ so surprising?"

"A little," Orphelia admitted. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're from District Twelve, and that the girl from your district won last year," Dinah pointed out. "That might be enough to attract some attention from the sponsors. I know that you're willing to go out on a limb to try to get things done. You approached me to ask for an alliance even though you weren't certain I'd want one. That takes some guts. I like guts."

Orphelia blushed a little. "Thanks."

Dinah nodded. "So maybe now you can answer my question. Why me?"

"Pardon?"

"Maybe it's not so surprising that _someone_ would want me as an ally, but why did you pick me to ask? There are plenty of other options – good ones, even," she added with a chuckle. "So why me?"

Orphelia hesitated. "It'll sound selfish."

"Selfish can keep you alive," Dinah pointed out.

"Maybe," Orphelia agreed. "I just didn't want to end up … tagging along with an alliance that was already there. You know what I mean?"

Dinah nodded. "I know _exactly_ what you mean."

* * *

 **Orphelia Mykonos, 17  
** **District Twelve**

Part of her wanted to tell Dinah the truth.

Orphelia watched quietly as Dinah turned her attention back to the fishing net she was trying to make. While it was true that she hadn't wanted to join a large group, that wasn't the biggest reason she had picked Dinah. The truth was more selfish than that. She wanted someone who could keep her alive, and Dinah … well, she seemed to fit the bill. She was bigger and stronger than Orphelia. She seemed to know what she was doing with that net. In fact, she had _seemed_ confident at most of the stations she had tried.

And confidence was one thing that could serve her well, especially after the fuss she'd caused at the reaping. The audience would be quick to forgive that if she made an impression once they were actually in the Games. And few things made a bigger impression than an alliance that actually worked well together. An alliance that could function as a group and survive together.

And Dinah would be a welcome addition to that group – but two tributes didn't make a group. "Do you think…" Orphelia started, adding just enough hesitation in her voice to practically guarantee that Dinah would ask the question she wanted.

"Do I think what?"

Orphelia shook her head. "Never mind. Bad idea." It wasn't, of course. But if she downplayed it, Dinah was more likely to go along with it, to take it and run with it to make her feel better.

"What is it?" Dinah prodded.

"Forget it. What I said about not wanting to join an alliance that was already there – I'm sure everyone else feels the same way."

"You think we should try to find someone to join us?"

Orphelia shook her head. "It's the second day of training, and almost the end of the day, at that. Do you really think anyone is going to want to join us?" Of course, she had already looked around and spotted several possibilities. Several tributes who didn't seem to be in an alliance yet. But if she let Dinah present the options, she would get a better feel for who Dinah might work well with.

"It doesn't look like the boy from Four is working with anyone yet." She nodded towards an older boy at one of the fire-starting stations. "But it didn't really seem like he wanted to work with _anyone_. There's a girl over there by herself, too." Dinah nodded towards the obstacle course, where a girl from Six with fading Henna tattoos was scrambling over the obstacles. "Or we could try to ask one of the other groups of two, see if they want to join up and make a group of four."

"We could," Orphelia agreed. "But four seems a bit … big." There were a few groups of three so far. Two of the tributes from Eleven seemed to be working with one of the boys from Four. The other boy from Eleven had teamed up with a girl from Four and a boy from One. The girl from Nine seemed to be working with the pair from Seven, and three of the younger boys seemed to have formed a group.

But four … the only group that large seemed to be the boys from Ten, along with a girl from Four and a girl from Eight. They had been eating lunch together, but had split up shortly after. Were they still a group? If not, forming a group of four would make them a tempting target for the Careers, the only group larger than that. That wasn't something she wanted.

Clearly, it wasn't something that Dinah wanted, either. "Well, if we want three, that doesn't leave us many options." She looked around again, double-checking to see if anyone else was available.

"Actually, I think it only leaves us one."

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win."_


	25. Training: If Thou Have It

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Last day of training!

* * *

 **Training Day Three – Morning  
** **If Thou Have It**

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17  
** **District One**

He would have to make a decision sooner or later.

Justus picked at his food as he and Felix finished their breakfast. The two of them had taken to waking up earlier than the others in order to try to work some time into their schedule when they could be alone. Having four tributes from the same district meant that things were a bit crowded; he certainly didn't envy the outer districts that had been doing this for years, most of them with fewer mentors to handle the extra tributes.

Still, at least his district partners seemed to be competent members of the Career pack. Mae clearly had some training, at least. Genevieve was more obviously lacking in that area, but the sponsors would probably like her, and she seemed to have a good grasp of previous Games and the strategies that had worked well for other tributes. Most importantly, she was adaptable – a trait that was sometimes lacking in Careers.

It was Felix who had pointed that out. Careers had a tendency to fall into the same pattern. Take the cornucopia, hunt down the other tributes, and then turn on each other if there were enough of them left to do so. There was a reason for the pattern, of course: it _worked_. And for quite a few Careers, it had worked well.

But it didn't _always_ work. There were no guarantees. Which was why he and Felix had begun discussing some other ways to stir the pot a little once the Games got started. Different approaches he and the other Careers could take. The other Careers were already looking to him as their leader. He was one of the oldest, and probably the one with the most training. But along with that influence came the responsibility of actually _leading_ the pack, making decisions when the group was split, keeping things moving and interesting.

Justus took another bite of his eggs. It was what he'd always wanted, in a twisted way. A position of power, leading others. But this wasn't really what he'd had in mind when he'd started volunteering with the mayor. Politics, for all its cutthroat reputation, didn't _usually_ lead to the players' deaths. Well, not unless they _really_ made a mistake. But once he was in the Games, it wouldn't take a major mistake to get him killed. It could just take a little one.

He would have to be careful.

But not too careful.

It was a balance. A balance he intended to get right. Which was why he had to make the right moves even within the pack itself. Eventually, the Career pack always split up. Well, as long as they _lasted_ long enough to split up in the first place. And when that happened, who he had on his side might determine whether he survived the split.

 _You're thinking a bit far ahead, aren't you?_ That was what Felix had said when he'd first broached the subject. And maybe he was. But it was better to think too far ahead than not far enough. He wasn't naive enough to believe he could keep the entire pack on his side – not forever. Eventually, some of them would turn against him – or against each other.

Justus shook his head as he left the table and made his way down to the training area. It wasn't a decision he would have to make _now_. But eventually the pack would split, and he would have to make sure he was on the right side. The _winning_ side.

If only there was a way to know which side that would be.

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18  
** **District Two**

They would just have to wait and see if they'd made the right choice.

Mae took a deep breath, taking aim at the target. She and Margo had headed straight for the throwing knives after breakfast, hoping to get in a little more practice with them before taking a swing at some of the heavier weapons. The fact that it was the third day of training was starting to sink in. It wouldn't be long now before they were actually in the Games, and she could be throwing that knife at another tribute rather than a dummy.

Only then would they find out whether they'd made the right choice. She and Margo had thought about trying to find another ally or two, but they'd decided against it every time. The two of them weren't likely to attract attention early on – either from the other tributes or from sponsors. But they would have to wait and see whether that was a gamble that would pay off.

Mae threw the knife, which bounced off the target and clattered to the floor. "Damn it," Mae muttered, her fists clenched tightly as she headed over to the targets to collect the knives. A few had stuck, and a few more had hit the target and bounced off. A few more were scattered harmlessly on the ground by the targets. Not exactly what she'd been hoping for.

This was harder than she'd remembered.

Or maybe she was just tenser than she'd remembered. It was always harder to throw when she was tense. She could practically hear Tyson's voice. _Don't hold your breath, genius._ It was such an easy thing to forget, though, in the moment. And if it was this easy to forget now, if she was this tense now, then things would only be worse once they were actually in the arena. When her life might actually depend on whether or not she could make a throw.

"Maybe we should try something else," Margo suggested, and Mae reluctantly followed her over to the axe station. Axes were heavier, which made them a bit trickier than they looked. Sure, any idiot could pick up an axe and swing it around in the air, or ram it into something as quickly as they could. But they would tire quickly. Even a Career would, if they didn't have the proper technique.

The trick was to get the balance right, to choose the hand and body positions that would best distribute the weight. Mae chose one of the lighter axes, quickly positioning her hands the way the trainer had showed her the day before. The trainer smiled back, satisfied, as she shifted her weight, her legs spread slightly apart, her knees slightly bent to better absorb the impact when he struck. "Good. You remembered."

Mae nodded. Remembering _now_ wasn't the problem. Remembering once her life depended on it, once she wouldn't have all the time in the world to find the right position and prepare herself – _that_ was the problem. Once she was in the Games, she wouldn't have time to go back and correct her mistakes. She would have to think on the spot. She would have to make decisions quickly.

And she would have to get it right the first time.

* * *

 **Aven Faraday, 16  
** **District Nine**

She would have to wait and see if she'd gotten it right.

Aven clapped Thomas on the back as he finished the obstacle course in just under ten minutes. "Awesome!" she grinned. "Maybe I should have another go."

Thomas nodded, still a little winded. "Knock yourself out. I don't think Charu's coming back."

Aven glanced around. The older girl from Six had spent most of the previous day at the obstacle course, but now she was on the opposite side of the room, along with the girls from Three and Twelve. She'd thought about suggesting to Thomas and Nephelle that maybe the three of them could ask her to join them, but she'd put off asking until it was too late. Or, at least, it certainly seemed to be too late.

But maybe that had been the right choice, after all. The three of them seemed to make a pretty good team. They'd spent most of the first day training together, and had split up on the second to cover some more ground, get a feel for more survival skills that they could share with the group before meeting up again in the afternoon. They'd spent the last half hour or so clambering over the obstacle course, trying to get a feel for how quickly they would have to move in the arena.

Aven glanced over at the trainer who was keeping time. He gave her a nod. "Whenever you're ready."

Aven took a deep breath and counted down in her head. _Three. Two. One._ She took off running towards the first climbing hill, only slowing down enough to keep herself from running right into it. The first time through, she'd been surprised by how tall it was. It didn't look bad from far away, but up close, it stretched almost to the ceiling. There were nets below, of course, to keep the tributes from accidentally harming themselves. She'd fallen from near the top the first time – a fall that would have seriously injured her in the Games, if not killed her outright.

This time, she was more careful. Careful to find her footing before reaching for the next handhold, and the next, and the next. Before she knew it, she was at the top of the wall, swinging her legs over the other side. A platform waited for her there, and another, a little farther away. Aven took a deep breath, leaping from one platform to the next, until she reached a series of bars in the air. Aven reached for the first one, then the next. Hand over hand, until she was safely on the other side, where a net stretched to the floor.

She climbed down almost the entire way, then jumped to the ground and raced back towards where she started, dropping to her hands and knees to crawl through the makeshift tunnel on the floor. Then she sprinted to the finish line, glancing over at the trainer. He smiled. "Eleven minutes, fourteen seconds."

Aven grinned, catching her breath as Nephelle clapped her on the back. "That's even better than last time."

Aven smirked. "Well, I didn't fall this time. That helps."

Thomas nodded. "Good point. How about you, Nephelle? Want another try?"

Nephelle hesitated, then nodded back towards the other survival stations. "Maybe later. For now, I think we should focus on something we _haven't_ tried." She shook her head.

"We don't have much time left, after all."

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

They would have to focus if they were going to stand a real chance in the arena.

Nephelle couldn't help noticing Aven's disappointed look as they left the obstacle course. There was a part of her that had wanted to try again. To try to beat Aven's score, or at least beat her last time. It was a challenge. It was _fun_.

And that was the problem. 'Fun' was pretty much all it was. It was a good workout, perhaps, but they hadn't really learned anything. Maybe it was good practice for the Careers, who just wanted to keep up their strength and stamina and didn't really need to focus on learning anything else. But for the rest of them, there was too much they still needed to learn. They couldn't afford to waste any more time scrambling over rocks or crawling through tunnels – not when they could be learning something that might save their lives.

And they didn't have much time left to do that. It was the last day of training, and they'd already been in the training area for a few hours. Nephelle led the way back towards the snare-making station. They'd spent a little bit of time there the day before, mostly focusing on the sort of traps that would kill animals for them to eat. But killing animals wasn't the point of the Games. It would keep them alive, yes, but it wouldn't bring them any closer to the end of the Games.

Eventually, they would have to be able to kill the other tributes.

Neither of the others seemed to want to think about that. Not that Nephelle _wanted_ to think about it, either. The thought of actually killing _any_ of the other people in the room made her sick. Every time she reminded herself that that was why they were here, she had to resist the urge to curl up in a corner and throw up. She didn't want to do this any more than they did.

But they would have to. _She_ would have to. So as the three of them settled in at the snare station, she turned to the trainer. "We wanted to try something different today. We were wondering about good ways to make traps for … well, other _people_."

"Other tributes, you mean?" the trainer asked, as if there was really a difference. Maybe there was, in the Capitolites' minds. Maybe once their names were called at the reaping, the Capitolites stopped thinking of them as people. Maybe they never really thought about the districts' citizens as people in the first place. Maybe that was what made the Games so easy for them.

 _Stop it._ Whatever she thought of Capitolites in general, this one was trying to help her. "Yeah, other tributes," Nephelle agreed reluctantly. "So what do we do if we want to…"

No. It wasn't about what they wanted to do. It was about what they _had_ to do. "If we have to catch another tribute instead of an animal," Thomas finished, as if he'd read her mind. "What difference does it make?"

The trainer nodded. "The first big difference is the weight, the amount of sheer force that a tribute bill be able to exert, the strain they'll be able to put on the trap compared to a rabbit or a squirrel or a bird. Tributes are bigger, they're heavier, and they might have a weapon of their own that they can use to try to escape your trap." He smiled a little.

"You'll have to be prepared for that."

* * *

 **Thomas Elliot, 18  
** **District Seven**

Part of him wished he'd had the nerve to ask sooner.

Thomas leaned forward a little, listening to the trainer. As it turned out, setting a trap for tributes was a _lot_ harder than setting a trap for an animal. Which made sense, now that he thought about it. Animals usually weren't on the lookout for traps. Tributes would be – at least the ones who were likely to make it far into the Games. And the trainer was right about tributes having more ways to escape a trap on their own.

So unlike an animal – a rabbit, a squirrel, a bird – the key to making a good tribute-catching trap was to be able to kill them quickly, before they would have a chance to figure out a way to escape. Which meant that the trap needed to either kill them outright or incapacitate them enough to give him time to return to the trap and kill them. Thomas shook his head. It was just like killing an animal. Just like a squirrel. Just bigger.

A lot bigger.

And a lot more intelligent. Not only could the other tributes fight back, but they might also be making traps of their own. Thomas leaned a little closer, watching the trainer's movements closely. Even if he and his allies couldn't get their hands on the supplies to make a trap of their own, they would have to be on the lookout for traps laid by other tributes. Even if he didn't end up setting a trap, this information could save their lives.

The trainer handed each of them a rope. "One of the simplest ways to set a trap is to have a load of some sort in a net up in a tree or other structure, and to set a trip line that will drop it in a certain spot once triggered. The trick, of course, is to make sure that the tribute is standing in _exactly_ that spot when the weight drops. Any ideas about how to get them to do that?"

"Bait?" Aven offered. That had been a key part of their traps for animals. Placing a bit of food in just the right spot to lure the creatures in.

"Excellent," the trainer agreed. "But what _kind_ of bait?"

Thomas shrugged. "Is there a reason to think that food wouldn't work?"

Aven giggled a little. "You don't think that would look a _little_ suspicious – just a pile of food sitting out in the middle of nowhere?"

Thomas chuckled. "I never said a _pile_ of food. But if you dug up the ground a little, made it look like there was a stash of food underneath, maybe had a bit of something sticking out of it, like it wasn't very well hidden … wouldn't that be worth a look for a tribute who might be starving?"

Nephelle nodded. "Good thinking. Or if you had a backpack, and maybe a strap of it sticking out to make it look like someone had unearthed it a little. Or maybe like a mutt had been digging around in someone's stash. That might make someone want to look a little closer."

"Maybe," the trainer agreed. "What else?"

"If someone was asleep," Aven spoke up. "We could use one of us as bait, pretend to be sleeping … and when the other tribute tried to kill us, they'd spring the trap."

"Not a bad idea," the trainer agreed. "Although if there are three of you, you'd probably have better luck with one of you pretending to sleep and the two of you jumping out and ambushing whoever's coming than you would setting up a trap. Not a bad idea if you happen to find yourself alone, though."

Thomas nodded. _If_. It wasn't really a question of if they would find themselves alone, but _when_. As comfortable as he was getting with his allies, it was only a matter of time before they were separated – or worse.

And he would have to be ready.

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

They would have to be ready for whatever the other tributes might throw at them.

Etora glanced around the room as the other tributes settled down for lunch. She and the other Careers had chosen a table in the center of the room. It was a good vantage point from which to observe the others, and it gave them good visibility, as well. The other tributes needed to know that the pack was going to be a force to contend with, even though…

Even though three of them were fourteen or younger. Even though most of them didn't have nearly as much training as Careers usually did. Even though they'd spent just as much time as the others over the last three days scrambling to pick up every bit of information they could. Careers could usually afford to relax a little during training. They had to stay sharp, of course, stay loose, and avoid getting injured. But as far as basic knowledge went, they were already prepared well before training began.

Not this year. She hadn't wanted to waste any time with what she already knew, so after brushing up on a few more complicated knife techniques, she'd headed straight for the more complex weapons. Weapons that were usually reserved for the older, stronger trainees at the academy. Darian had followed her eagerly, and had done relatively well, considering his obvious lack of training.

Obvious to her, at least. Maybe not to the non-Career tributes or to the audience, but his technique was way off. He clearly hadn't been training for long, and neither had Elliot or Genevieve, if they'd trained at all. Justus knew what he was doing, and both Mae and Macauley had some solid experience, but … well, not as much. In a normal year, neither of them would have been chosen.

Of course, in a normal year, _she_ wouldn't have been chosen, either. Not at this age. Once she was older, certainly. Seventeen, eighteen. But not now. Not so long before she would have been truly ready.

But it wouldn't help to dwell on that. And she was trying not to. But it just seemed so … unfair. The Capitol could have raised the number of tributes to coincide with the Victors _without_ forbidding volunteers. But they hadn't. So instead of five well-trained killers, District Two had sent the five of _them_.

Etora picked at her food, watching Genevieve out of the corner of her eye. The older girl seemed fixated on something in the opposite direction. Etora turned to look, but there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. "What is it?"

Genevieve shook her head. "I wish she would just make up her mind already."

Etora raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"That girl from Six, Charu. This is the third or fourth different group of tributes I've seen her with over the past few days. I wonder what her angle is."

Etora shrugged. "Maybe she's just friendly." She'd never really understood some people's need to socialize with whoever was handy, but there were clearly others who didn't share her confusion.

Genevieve leaned forward in her chair, watching the girl. "No. I know friendly. She's playing at something. Maybe hoping that if she gets to know enough people, they won't want to kill her. Maybe hoping to find out their weaknesses or secrets or something."

Etora shook her head. "If you say so." It wasn't their problem, really. She'd been watching the other tributes during training, trying to figure out who might be a threat. And the girl from Six certainly hadn't caught her eye.

Whatever she was up to, it wouldn't really matter once the Games began.

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'ldst have, great Glamis, that which cries 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it.'"_


	26. Training: Undone

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And that's a wrap on training. Camp NaNoWriMo's been good to me so far. Just a reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll if you haven't already; a new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

* * *

 **Training Day Three – Evening  
** **Undone**

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

There was no undoing it now.

Wes smiled at the girl across from him. It had been Aleyn's idea to come and sit with her. She was one of the only tributes who didn't seem to have found an alliance, but not for lack of trying. During the last few days, he'd seen her with the girls from Three and Twelve, as well as the boy from Three and her own district partner. But neither of those groups had joined her for lunch today. It was past noon on the third day of training – a little late to be thinking about adding to their alliance. But maybe one more person wouldn't hurt.

"Anyone sitting here?" Consus asked, despite the fact that the three of them had already sat down.

The girl shook her head. "Nobody but you. What brings you over here?"

Aleyn shrugged. "Just looked like you needed some company."

The girl chuckled a little. "Finding company doesn't seem to be the problem. _Keeping_ company … well, I guess that's a different matter."

"Alliances haven't been working out?" Wes guessed.

The girl blushed a little. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only a little," Consus offered. "Look, if you want to join us, I…" He glanced at Wes and Aleyn, who nodded. " _We_ would be happy to have you."

The girl hesitated. "That's what the other groups said."

Wes raised an eyebrow. "Then what happened?"

"I told them I would think about it, and then we started training together, and … well, it just didn't work out."

"They said you weren't good enough for them?" Aleyn guessed.

The girl shook her head. "I wasn't serious enough for them."

Consus chuckled. "Not serious enough?" he repeated, confused.

"They all wanted to get down to business and focus on training, and I didn't see any harm in throwing a little fun into the mix, and … well, it just didn't work out." She shook her head. "Look, I'm sorry for dumping all of this on you. It's not really your problem. I just thought that if you were offering an alliance, you might as well know what you're getting into, so you can get out if … if it's not really what you want."

Wes nodded, holding out his hand. "If it's not what _you_ want, that's fine. But I think all three of us could do with a little more fun. I'm Wes."

"Charu."

Consus smiled, offering his hand next. "I'm Consus, and this is Aleyn."

"Good to meet you. Well, I mean, not _good_ that we met here, I suppose, but … well, it could always be worse."

Wes chuckled a little. "How?"

He hadn't really expected an answer to that, but Charu went quiet, tracing the fading tattoos on her hands. "It could. I know a thing or two about being … forced into an alliance you don't really want." She shook her head, a smile returning to her face. "But that's not important right now. Right now, we're here. And any alliance we make in the Games … well, it only lasts so long, anyway. So if we mess it up, it's not the end of the world, right?"

Wes smiled a little. "Right."

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

It was too late to take it back now.

Charu smiled a little as she turned her attention back to the rest of her meal. The truth was out there now – or, at least, she'd hinted at it. She'd been unsure about whether to tell anyone the truth about why she had actually been _relieved_ at the reaping. After all, if her family knew…

They would disown her. That much was certain. But they would _have_ to find out, if she came back. If she returned to District Six, there was no _way_ she was going to go through with the marriage. So they would have to find out sooner or later. And if she didn't come home – if she died in the Games – then why should it matter to her whether they disowned her or not?

"I was engaged," Charu blurted out before she could stop herself.

Consus raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Before the reaping, I was engaged to be married. We were going to get married later that day, in fact."

Consus shook his head. "I'm sorry. That's rough."

Charu chuckled. "Not for the reason you think. I didn't want to marry him. It was my family – an arranged marriage. I never wanted it, and the Games … whatever else they've done, they've gotten me out of that."

Consus nodded. "Families can be … difficult. My whole family always wanted me to train for the Games. My sister's in training to be a Career, and my father always wanted me to do the same, but it was never something I wanted."

"And you just said no?" Charu asked, trying not to stare. She'd always wished she'd had the guts to do that – to just tell her parents no. She'd thought about it, but never quite gone through with it. This kid had been able to do what she couldn't.

Consus shook his head. "Yeah, I guess. I just told them I wouldn't be good at it … which was true. I guess they had to agree that was a pretty good reason."

Charu looked away. She had a pretty good reason, too. The fact that she'd never liked a boy in her life had seemed a pretty good reason not to marry one. But it was a reason her parents wouldn't have understood. Wouldn't have accepted.

"Sounds like both your parents are a bit … strict," Wes observed. "No wonder you got here and just wanted to have some fun."

"I guess it does explain a bit," Charu admitted. And maybe it also explained why she hadn't wanted to commit to any of the other alliances. Lena was nice enough, but she and Merrik had been so serious. And Dinah and Orphelia had done nothing but talk about how an alliance would be _beneficial_. But these three … they were different. _This_ was different.

So when they finished their meal and headed back to the stations, Charu followed with a smile, the others clapping her on the back and welcoming her into their little group. It was almost … almost _nice._ That was something she hadn't expected to find in the Games. It certainly felt good.

Even if it could only last a little while.

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

It was too late to tell them now.

Retro couldn't help a smile as the four tributes behind him got up and headed back to the training stations. He'd overheard enough of their conversation to wish he'd had the guts to go over and introduce himself. He couldn't imagine defying his parents if they'd insisted that he start training at the academy. And as far as an arranged marriage … well, _that_ was all to familiar. He was too young to really be engaged, but his parents and Ysa's parents had been talking about the two of them marrying since they were small. Ysa was a nice enough kid, but she was ten. He'd never thought about her like that. He'd never _wanted_ to.

"Eavesdropping a little there, Retro?" David teased, giving his shoulder a little shake.

Retro shrugged. "Never hurts to know a little about the competition."

David chuckled. "Didn't hear anything that would do us any good. She doesn't want to get married. He doesn't want to be a Career. Nothing that's going to really matter in the Games. We don't get a choice now about whether we want to be Careers or not – right, Retro?"

Retro nodded distractedly. He'd never wanted to be a Career. But he'd also never wanted to marry Ysa. Never really wanted to do any of the things his family had planned for him. He'd never dreamed that he would really get a say in what happened with the rest of his life. It had all been planned out, mapped out, years in advance.

Except this hadn't been part of the plan.

The Games changed everything. He could only imagine what his family was thinking right now. No matter which way things went in the Games, all of their plans were ruined. Even if he came home again, the life they had planned for him back in District Five was gone. Retro shook his head as he finished the last of his potatoes. "I guess it doesn't really matter now – what we would have been back in our districts. What would have happened. We all get a new chance."

Ti chuckled. "A new chance. Speak for yourself. My life wasn't so bad back in my district. I didn't ask for a new chance."

David shook his head. "None of us did, remember? Not this year. But if we survive—"

"But _we_ won't," Ti pointed out. "Only one person gets to live. One. One person gets a chance at a new life. One person gets to live to regret what they did in the arena. I mean, look at the Victors who've made it out of the arena. How many of them act like they've been given a second chance at life?"

Retro opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. District Five was different. Harakuise, Sabine, Camden, Adalyn, Oliver – they _all_ acted like they'd been given a second chance. They were all grateful to have made it out of the arena. But they were also Careers – or, at least, three of them were. Four of them had volunteered, and that made them better prepared to handle both the Games and its aftermath. But if he said so around these two…

No. No, it was better to hold his tongue. For now, at least. He could pretend to be just as disgusted by the Games, if that was what he needed to do. He couldn't act too proud to be from a Career district, or he would risk alienating his allies.

That was something he couldn't afford.

* * *

 **Kilian Romane, 17  
** **District Eleven**

It was too late to change his mind now.

Kilian glanced around the room as the clock continued to tick off the minutes until the end of the day. They had about an hour left of training time, and he was feeling almost … almost _ready_. It was a strange feeling, really. He'd never imagined, when his name had been called at the reaping, that he would ever feel _ready_ for the Games.

He certainly wasn't eager for the killing to begin. But while so many of the other tributes were rushing to get in as much last-minute training as they could, his little alliance had found their way back to the archery station, where Shanali was trying a few tricks. So far, she'd managed to at least hit the target after turning in a circle a few times. Ronan insisted she'd gotten lucky, and she probably had, but it was also true that she had a bit of a knack for it.

Kilian leaned back against the cart that held the bows, watching the other groups. There were so many of them. So many kids who just _weren't_ ready, who would never be ready. Twelve and thirteen year olds. Kids who reminded him so much of his little brother. Devan would never stand a chance in the Games, and neither would some of these tributes.

There was a part of him that had been tempted to try, anyway. To try to protect them. Help them. But it was too late now. He'd chosen his allies, and they were allies who were going to help _him_ , as well as the other way around. As much as he wanted to help these kids, his first priority was getting home to his own brother, his own family. If that happened – if he managed to come home a Victor – _then_ he could help as many people as he wanted.

Only then.

First, he had to win. He had to survive. And in order to do that, he might very well end up having to kill some of the very same children he'd wanted to protect. The thought made him sick. Kilian shook his head, trying to focus his attention on the older tributes. On the ones who might be a threat. That wouldn't be so bad, maybe – killing someone who had been trying to kill him. But still…

"What's on your mind?" Shanali asked as he helped her retrieve the arrows she'd shot.

Kilian shrugged. "Nothing. Just … just checking out the competition." He forced a smile. "Unless you'd rather I check _you_ out."

Shanali snorted, punching him playfully on the shoulder. "Let's try to focus on the competition, shall we." She smirked. "But I suppose there's no harm in _looking_."

Kilian chuckled. Behind them, he could tell Ronan was trying not to burst out laughing. It hadn't been _that_ funny, but maybe they'd just needed something to break the tension. It wouldn't be long, after all. Not long until they would be fighting for their lives in the arena. Maybe a little joke or two now was harmless after all.

Maybe they needed all the laughs they could get.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

It was too late to change her mind now.

Genevieve flashed a smile at the other Careers as they gathered again at the edge of the training room. There were only about ten minutes left – not really enough time to get in anything they hadn't tried already. Most of the other tributes were finishing up with something. Genevieve glanced around the room, watching the different groups. Almost everyone seemed to have found someone else to work with.

There were only a few larger groups to watch out for – aside from themselves, obviously. On the other side of the training room, the boys from Ten were meeting up again, with the girls they'd found as allies in tow.

Genevieve shook her head. No. No, not the boys from Ten. Connor and Skyton. Those were their names. She'd made a point of learning all their names during training, and the only way to get into the habit was to _keep_ using them. Not that any of the other tributes would care, but it would make an impression with the audience. The audience could remember thirty-five names, after all. And that meant she could, too.

So Connor and Skyton, then, were meeting back up, along with Arabel and Klaudia. It had taken her a while to figure out whether the four of them were actually working together, but it seemed as if they'd finally decided to stick together, at least for the time being. Two of them had spent more time at the weapons stations, two at the survival stations. Not a bad strategy, overall, as long as they managed to stay together long enough to make use of each other's areas of expertise.

The other group of four – Consus, Aleyn, Wes, and Charu – was over by the snack table, finishing off the last of the cookies. But that was probably just for show; they hadn't been there long. They'd spent a good part of the afternoon at the climbing stations. But now they were apparently trying to look like they were relaxing – maybe give the impression that they were ready to get on with it. Not a bad idea, either.

Most of the groups of three seemed to be taking things a bit more seriously. Ronan, Kilian, and Shanali were still at the archery station, pretending to have a bit of fun to cover up the fact that the girl had actually gotten pretty good. Not Career-level good, certainly, but most of this year's _Careers_ weren't at that level, either. Nearby, Thomas, Nephelle, and Aven were putting the finishing touches on a shelter they'd built. The younger group of three – Retro, David, and Ti – were at the snare station, testing a trap they'd built.

The rest had paired off in groups of two. Annemae and Margo. Leo and Barlen. Lena and Merrik. Mariska and Vashti. Orphelia and Dinah had been looking for another tribute to join them, but had apparently failed to convince anyone. Off in another corner, Emmett was watching with a glare on his face, clearly ready for training to be over with.

Soon, he got his wish. The bell rang, signaling the end of training for the day. Genevieve took a deep breath, following Justus and Mae back to their room. Training was over. Tomorrow, they would have their private sessions in the morning, followed by score announcements in the afternoon and interviews in the evening. The next day – the day after tomorrow – the Games would begin.

She just hoped she would be ready.

* * *

" _Yet do I fear thy nature; it is too full o' the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, that wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'ldst have, great Glamis, that which cries 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it; and that which rather thou dost fear to do than wishest should be undone.'"_


	27. Private Sessions: Strange Matters

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** So ... this ended up a bit long. Really long, actually. That's what I get for having 35 tributes and _not_ lumping them in groups like I did last time around. I thought about splitting it up into two chapters after I finished up with the Career districts but decided it was better to just keep plodding along, so ... here you go. Super long chapter.

Anyway.

Results of the bloodbath poll are up on the website. There's a new poll up on my profile, and this one will actually have an effect on the Games. Yep, it's time for the sponsor poll. For my newcomers, this is what I do in lieu of a sponsor system. Mostly because I'm not organized enough to keep track of a real one, but also because I'm too much of a control freak to let you dictate what you want to send your tributes and when. So here's how this works:

Cast your vote for the tribute(s) you would sponsor. You can use whatever criteria you like; this is all about who _you_ would sponsor. The top three tributes (occasionally one or two more in the event of a tie) will receive a sponsor gift at some point during the Games, provided they survive the bloodbath. If they don't make it out of the bloodbath, the gift will pass to one of their allies, or to a district partner if they don't have any allies or if their allies are also toast. These may not be the _only_ tributes who get sponsor gifts, but a certain amount of reader support right now guarantees that they'll at least get _something_. However, _I_ get to decide what that something is, and when they get it.

Vote for as many or as few tributes as you like. As usual, feel free to vote for your own tribute - I don't exactly have a way to stop you - but please don't _only_ vote for them. If they're the only one you'd like to support at this point, I'm doing something wrong.

* * *

 **Private Sessions  
** **Strange Matters**

* * *

 **Tamika Ward  
** **Head Gamemaker**

She had everything planned out perfectly.

Tamika grinned, spreading her supplies on the table in front of her. Everything was going to move very quickly once it started. After spending years hearing Gamemakers complain about how tedious private sessions were, she'd resolved not to fall into the same trap.

The problem was that Gamemakers wanted to keep their sessions the same from year to year. Keep a level playing field for the tributes, keep everything fair. But that sort of thinking was inherently flawed. Nothing else about the Games was the same from one year to the next. A score of six in a regular year with the typical number of Careers meant something entirely different when there were no Careers whatsoever.

Even trying to keep a level playing field between tributes within a given year was almost as pointless. Tributes were automatically judged on different levels simply because of their age, their height and weight, their district. A score of nine from a Career was normal; the same score from a younger outer-district tribute was practically unheard of, and would get that tribute targeted in a heartbeat.

So things were already different. Tributes were already held to different standards. Different enough, it seemed at times, to render the whole system of presenting skills and giving scores entirely meaningless. But it was a necessity, nonetheless. The audience wanted it. Craved it. They loved seeing those scores, having something concrete to attach to their expectations of the tributes.

Which was part of her job – to keep things at least somewhat unexpected. Which was another thing that made the whole ritual a bit ridiculous. No matter how well each of the tributes did, _some_ of them were going to score low. And even if they were all hopeless failures, _some_ of them would have to score high. Back before there were Careers, tributes still earned nines and tens. But those nines and tens meant something completely different now.

It was all artificial. All inflated to stir up drama. But if that was going to be part of her job, then she might as well enjoy it. So she had built in a few surprises for the tributes.

Every tribute would be given fifteen minutes, as usual. But the room they were in had been designed specifically to her specifications. Three minutes after the tribute's session began, the automatic sprinklers in the ceiling would go off, simulating a pouring rain. Six minutes into their session, a large fan at one end of the room would start to blow, simulating strong winds. After nine minutes, the floor would begin to shake. And after twelve minutes, the room would be plunged into complete darkness. A night vision camera was trained on the room, and each of her fellow Gamemakers had also been provided with night vision glasses, designed to look like regular glasses from the outside. The tributes wouldn't suspect a thing.

That was the idea, at least. If a few of them noticed that it was a bit strange for every single one of the Gamemakers to be wearing identical glasses, all the better. Adaptation was an important part of any game – the Hunger Games especially so. Tamika glanced at the clock on the wall, which read 5:58. It was almost time.

Fifteen minutes for each tribute. A few minutes to clean the room between sessions, leaving no trace of what had happened. If everything went well, they would finish between three and four in the afternoon.

As long as everything went according to plan.

* * *

 **6:00**

Mae noticed the glasses immediately, but said nothing as she made her way towards the snare supplies. Tamika smiled a little. An odd choice for a tribute from One, but, then again, this wasn't exactly a normal year for Career tributes – something she would have to keep in mind. Mae was part of the way through a rather complex snare when the rain began.

Immediately, she jumped up, startled, glancing up at the Gamemakers. Maybe wondering whether she had done something to trigger the sprinklers. Tamika could practically see her running through the scenarios in her head. She hadn't started a fire. She hadn't gotten anywhere close to the ceiling. Finally, she settled on the only possible explanation: it was part of the session. Wiping the water from her face, she returned to her snare.

Soon, however, the fan started blowing, nearly ruining her trap before Mae scrambled to position herself between the fan and her work, blocking the wind. Tamika leaned back in her chair. In order for Mae to complete the sort of snare she was working on, she would have to loop the rope over something – a tree branch or some other structure. Not a problem in normal conditions, but in the rain…

Just as she finished and was preparing to throw the end of the rope over one of the bars above her head, the floor began to shake. Mae barely held back a scream as she reached for the nearest sturdy structure – a pole that was attached to some of the bars. Mae held on tight, gripping the end of the rope as the pole began to creak.

It was supposed to, of course. It was designed to look like it was breaking. But Mae had no way of knowing that. As the room plunged into darkness, she let go. Tamika could see her reaching up in the dark, feeling around with her hands, reaching for something high up along the pole. Then she sat down, curled up tightly until the room stopped shaking.

The lights switched back down, and Mae was clearly fighting the urge to bolt for the door. Instead, she tripped the snare, and a hatchet came swinging down. Mae ducked out of the way in time, then backed up so Tamika could see what she had done. Instead of looping the rope around something, she'd slipped it into one of the cracks in the pole. As it settled, it had trapped the rope, securing it in place. Tamika smiled a little as Mae turned to go. Not bad at all.

* * *

 **6:17**

Consus forced a smile as he entered the room. Like Mae, he clearly had no intention of showing off any combat skills. Instead, he immediately started scrambling up one of the climbing walls. Tamika held back a chuckle. She'd been wondering if anyone was going to try that – and what the result would be.

Soon enough, as soon as the sprinklers went off, Consus lost his grip, falling into the net below. As soon as he got to his feet, he stared up at the sprinklers, confused. "What…?" he began, but got no further before he sighed, glaring up at her. "Really?"

But the water apparently wasn't enough of a deterrent. He headed for the climbing wall again, more careful with his grip this time. He made it a little higher before slipping, and this time managed to catch himself before he fell. He was breathing hard, but at least he was still making progress, even as the wind started to blow. He gripped harder, hugged the wall a little tighter, and certainly moved slower. But he was still moving.

That stopped, of course, when the floor started shaking – and the wall along with it. Consus slipped again, and apparently decided it wasn't worth it to keep going. Instead, he headed for the shelter-building station and grabbed a large piece of fabric, quickly draping it over one of the nearby tree branches and disappearing beneath it even as the room went dark.

Three minutes. Three minutes of silence – apart from the room shaking – as he hid in his makeshift shelter. Then the lights came back on, and he slowly made his way out. He didn't even bother glancing up at them before leaving. He had hid. He had given up. But sometimes knowing _when_ to give up on an idea was a good thing. Maybe he wasn't giving himself enough credit. Or maybe she was giving him too much.

* * *

 **6:34**

Genevieve was beaming as she entered the room. "Hello, hello, _hello_!" she called, as if to remind them that some people actually _did_ enjoy mornings. Tamika returned the smile as Genevieve headed for the edible plants station. "Maybe not what you would expect from a Career," she conceded. "But I believe my weapons skills during training speak for themselves, and I figured you'd like to see something different."

It was a bluff. Her weapons skills had been mediocre even for a non-Career, but Tamika nodded along non-commitally as Genevieve began to sort some of the plants. She was actually doing fairly well, and had only sorted a few of them incorrectly by the time the sprinklers began to spray water all over.

Genevieve giggled. "And I was just hoping for a drink." She cupped her hands and drank some of the water, then popped a few of the edible berries into her mouth. "Delicious. And important to take advantage of rainwater when you can get it – especially if the arena isn't particularly hospitable. Take deserts, for example – like Jade's year. No water, except what came from the sponsors."

Tamika said nothing. She remembered that year. Or, rather, she remembered watching highlights from it. Jade's Games had been before she was even born. But that wasn't the only year where water had been scarce…

"Or take the 34th Games," Genevieve offered as the wind started to blow. "Fossil dig, and how many of the tributes realized that if you dug deep enough in the rock, you would reach fresh water? Only a few." She grinned, as if realizing something – something Tamika was certain she already knew. "Actually, District One won that year, too. Huh."

Genevieve was still rambling on about the conditions in previous arenas when the room began to shake. She immediately took shelter next to the nearest wall. "Clever!" she called. "If this were _real_ – I mean, if I was actually worried about something breaking loose and falling on me – then this would be the best place. It's the sturdiest structure. But since actually _killing_ a tribute or two before the Games wouldn't be such a great idea…" She waited a moment, gathering her wits before stepping back into the middle of the room just as the lights went out.

"Oh, _nice_ ," she gushed. "Pitch black. _Always_ a hit, you know. As long as your night vision cameras are working, I suppose. Remember when a few of the cameras went out along with the lights two years ago? Man, _that_ was entertaining. Is that why you didn't realize Basil was going to collapse the entire anthill?"

Tamika cringed. She was right, of course. The cameras had malfunctioned, temporarily leaving the Gamemakers themselves in the dark in a few parts of the arena – including where Basil was. She hadn't realized until too late that he'd found a structural flaw in the anthill and discovered a way to collapse it completely.

The lights came back up, and Genevieve bowed and left. Tamika shook her head. She'd gotten lucky, two years ago. If Snow had still been in charge, he would _not_ have been happy with that trick. As it was, President Grisom had appreciated the boy's intelligence and recognized his move as an act of self-preservation, rather than defiance. Sometimes the line between the two was so blurry.

* * *

 **6:50**

Justus entered the room with a bow and a smile, immediately launching into an analysis of each of the alliances that had been forming, making a point of insisting that none of them were a threat. "Take the boys from Ten, for example," he began. "Their alliance is based on a lie. Connor and Arabel are prepared to fight; Skyton and Klaudia aren't. If even one of them dies in the bloodbath – and, let's be honest, that's likely – then their alliance will dissolve almost immediately. If either Connor or Arabel dies, the other will find the others unwilling to do anything, and will probably leave out of frustration. If Skyton or Klaudia is killed, the other will be left with two tributes who are willing to kill. If the others don't immediately leave them behind, either of them would probably try to sneak away quietly rather than risk being seen as the only weak link in the alliance."

Tamika couldn't help a smile as the rain began, interrupting Justus' clearly well-prepared speech. To her surprise, Justus continued, but switched topics. "Clever. Let me guess how my district partners reacted to _that_. If Mae didn't panic, she probably did pretty well and went on with whatever she was doing, anyway. Genevieve probably started gushing about something that it reminds her of from a previous game, right? Not as sure about Consus, but he seems like he'd be easily flustered."

Justus, for his part, wasn't at all flustered even as the wind started to blow. "Now, the rest of the Careers? This would probably just annoy Etora. She'll probably be demonstrating some weapons – and quite right, too. She's quite talented for her age. Don't imagine this will throw her off much. Darian might lose it, though. He's got a bit of a short fuse. Macauley does, too. Might want to watch her closely, make sure she doesn't accidentally hurt someone if she's holding something pointy at the time."

Tamika smiled as the room started shaking. She'd thought of that. The trainer the tributes could be fighting with was wearing protective clothing, and he'd been warned about the room's adaptations. But so far, none of the tributes had wanted to demonstrate weapons. And if the _Career_ alliance had decided not to show their weapons skills…

"Not entirely sure about Elliot," Justus admitted, regaining his balance. "He'll probably think it's a good joke. He has the sense to realize that no one's going to get hurt. I mean, it's not like you would actually _kill_ a tribute before the Games. I can't imagine the president would be very happy with that."

Tamika held her tongue as the room grew dark and Justus kept talking. He was right – and that was the unavoidable flaw in her plan. She couldn't hurt the tributes. She couldn't place them in real danger. And there would always be a number of them who had the sense to realize that.

* * *

 **7:06**

Etora headed for the knife station immediately, breaking the pattern of Careers who didn't seem to want to show off their weapons abilities. Or maybe the others were simply trying to cover up whatever skill they lacked. That was something Etora didn't seem concerned about – and rightly so. Etora nodded to one of the trainers, who joined her, a few knife in each hand.

Etora charged immediately, diving low and aiming for his legs. The trainer dodged, but as he was busy dodging the knives, Etora kicked upwards, catching him on the knee. The trainer chuckled a little; she hadn't hurt him thanks to his padding. If he hadn't had any protection, however, that would have hurt – maybe even enough to distract him long enough for her to get a killing blow in.

As it was, Etora had to dodge his next blow. The two danced around, striking at each other but never quite landing a blow, until the sprinklers started to rain down on them. Etora didn't miss a beat. She dropped to her knees, using the extra water on the floor to slide between the trainer's legs. He didn't have time to dodge as she leapt up onto his back, holding the knife at his throat.

If she wanted, he would be dead. The trainer's eyes widened, and a chuckle escaped his lips. "Time to stop going easy on you, then," he reasoned, throwing her to the floor. Etora recovered quickly, dodging one blow and then another, then reaching for a larger dagger when it was clear his reach was becoming an advantage.

The wind didn't do much to interrupt their sparring now that they'd found a rhythm, and even the shaking floor didn't seem to faze them. The trainer was stronger, but Etora was more flexible, especially because she wasn't wearing any kind of armor. When the room went dark, everything went silent. She hadn't given the trainers night vision glasses, so he was just as lost as Etora was.

Tamika realized she was holding her breath as Etora felt around in the dark for a longer weapon. She chose a staff, swinging it around blindly, until she finally struck the trainer. But it was only a glancing blow, and he grabbed the staff, swinging it around with enough force to knock her off her feet before she had the sense to let go.

Etora scrambled to her feet as the lights came up again. She dusted herself off a little, glancing up at the Gamemakers expectantly. She clearly wanted more time. But Tamika couldn't afford to give it to her. No matter how much she might want to.

* * *

 **7:24**

Darian didn't give the trainer much of a chance to recover from his bout. He quickly chose a short blade, slightly curved – almost like a sickle. The trainer quickly chose something similar, waiting for Darian to make the first move.

At first, the boy seemed reluctant to do so. He'd clearly talked himself into demonstrating some weapons skills, but just as clearly didn't have much idea what he was really doing. When he finally swung, his movements had the right momentum, but he was badly off balance. The trainer ducked to one side, then pivoted, shifting his own weight as he grabbed Darian's wrist.

"Damn it," Darian muttered, kicking the trainer in the shin. The trainer let go. "Again," Darian insisted, striking quickly. The trainer took a step backwards, dodging one blow, then another. Darian clenched his teeth, swinging harder as the rain started to pour. "What?" he demanded, his gaze straying to the ceiling as the trainer took advantage of his distraction to knock him on the floor once more.

"Had enough?" the trainer asked, taking a step towards Darian. In response, Darian swung his blade into the trainer's leg. If the blades hadn't been blunted, and if the trainer hadn't been wearing protective clothing, that stroke alone could have incapacitated him.

"Not by a long shot," Darian muttered, getting to his feet. "You don't want to play fair? Fine. I can fight dirty, too." He ducked behind one of the nearby piles of weapons as the wind started blowing. When he emerged from behind the pile, his other hand held a rock, which he immediately hurled at the trainer's head.

The trainer ducked, but only just in time. He was shaking his head as Darian moved closer. "What's the matter?" Darian demanded as the floor began to shake. "Don't like the tables being turned? Well, Voss didn't like it, either."

Voss. Tamika had heard the rumors, of course. Rumors that Darian had killed another boy from the academy. There was a part of her that had assumed the rumors had been started by Balthasar, who had a flair for the dramatic. Or perhaps by Darian himself. But the emotion in the boy's voice now told her otherwise.

"No harm in telling you now, I guess," Darian growled above the howling of the wind and the crunching of the floor around him. "Yeah, I killed him. It was supposed to be a fair fight. It was just supposed to be to first blood. Well, I drew first blood. And I drew _last_ blood. So go ahead and laugh with your little games and your little tricks." He shook his head as the room was plunged into darkness. "I already know exactly what I'm doing. I know what I'll have to do. And I already know I have the stomach for it. How many tributes can really say that?"

* * *

 **7:41**

Mae went for the knives, as well, but instead of asking for one of the trainers to fight with her, she headed towards the dummies and immediately began throwing her knives. The first knife stuck deep into the target. Mae beamed, trying not to act as surprised as she probably was. Tamika had been watching her during training, of course. She knew what she was doing, but _knowing_ what she was doing and being able to get it right every time were two very different things.

Still, she was off to a good start, and even the fact that the next knife bounced harmlessly off the target didn't do much to dampen her spirits. The next knife hit near the edge of the target, and the fourth about halfway towards the center. She didn't have the precision that would normally be expected from a Career district, but she was certainly doing well.

It almost seemed a shame to interrupt, but soon the sprinklers were spraying water everywhere. After glancing around to make sure it wasn't a mistake – that the building wasn't on fire and no one else was leaving – Mae returned to throwing the knives. A few slipped out of her hand too soon and went flying wildly, but some still managed to hit the target.

She had just started heading over to collect the knives and start a new round of throwing when the wind started. Mae rolled her eyes, but collected the knives anyway, turning the targets around so that she would be throwing with the wind rather than against it. It didn't improve her aim, but a few of the knives stuck a little deeper than they would have.

As soon as the floor began to shake, however, she finally stopped throwing, trying to keep her balance as everything started to shake. She tried to throw a few of the knives, but the floor was shaking the targets, as well, and moving targets were always harder to hit.

Then the room went dark. Tamika couldn't help a smile as she watched Mae make her way towards the targets, positioning the knives carefully. Maybe she'd been watching the clock and knew exactly how much time she had left, because she made it back to her original position before the buzzer went off. Her hand was outstretched, as if she'd just thrown the last of the knives

Tamika held back a chuckle. It was obvious that she hadn't – even if she hadn't been able to see Mae with her glasses. The knives were all positioned near the centers of the targets. Her aim hadn't even been that good when the lights had been _on_. Still, she had to give her credit for the attempt. Sometimes, creativity was just as important as accuracy.

* * *

 **7:58**

Leo didn't venture anywhere near the weapons stations. Not that Tamika had been expecting him to. He'd spent the past three days at the first aid station, helping Barlen with the same techniques over and over again. He was very good at what he did, but what he did wasn't likely to lead to any other tributes' deaths.

Which was the point, of course. He was a nurse. His job was to keep people alive. And she could respect that, but in order to survive the Games, a tribute had to be willing to be flexible. To adapt. And Leo had shown no signs of that.

Instead, he headed straight for one of the dummies near the first aid supplies, picked up a scalpel, and began to slice at the dummy. Not to attack it, but to simulate the sort of injuries that might occur in the Games. He made a few cuts, dislocated one of the dummy's shoulders, broke its other arm, and twisted its ankle.

By the time it started raining, he was hard at work tending to the dummy's 'injuries.' He took care of the most crucial first, stopping the bleeding that would have occurred had he actually sliced into a person's stomach rather than a dummy's. Then he set the broken arm, ignoring the rain.

By the time he'd finished with the arm, the wind had begun. Leo immediately moved to the other side of the dummy, shielding it from the worst of the wind. He stitched up the stomach wound first, then a few of the other cuts, managing to finish with the needle before the floor started shaking.

With that done, Leo went to work on the dummy's shoulder as the floor began to rock around him. He popped it back into place quickly, then fashioned a makeshift sling out of some of the supplies that had been meant for building shelters. Just as he was reaching for a little more fabric to wrap the twisted ankle, the lights went down.

That didn't seem to phase him at all. Wrapping an ankle was clearly something he could do blind. He could probably do it in his sleep. By the time the lights came up, the dummy's ankle was set, and all the supplies had been put back in place. Leo leaned the dummy up against one of the poles and turned to go without another word.

Tamika nodded. He had done good work, but there was a problem. He'd bandaged and set both the dummy's arms in place – one because of the broken arm, the other because of the dislocated shoulder. If that had been a tribute, they would never have been able to fight in that position. Something else would have to be done – something she wasn't sure Leo would have the stomach to do.

* * *

 **8:14**

Margo sat down at the fire-starting station immediately, and had _almost_ managed to get her fire lit before the sprinklers ruined her plan. Margo shook her head, but obviously knew better than to complain. She got up and headed for the weapons, where she chose a dagger and nodded to one of the trainers. "All right, then. I was planning to finish the fire first, but let's go."

Tamika smiled as the trainer chose a similar dagger and Margo took the first swing. Whether she'd actually been planning to demonstrate both survival skills and weapons skills, Tamika wasn't sure. It wasn't out of the question, but that also wasn't the point. Whether it had been her original plan or not, Margo was clearly willing to adapt that plan instead of blindly forging ahead with something that wasn't working. That was something.

Margo and the trainer traded a few swings, but it wasn't long before the trainer landed what would have been a deadly blow if he'd actually been trying to kill her. Margo winced but said nothing. She simply swung again, starting the bout over as the wind started to blow.

Margo took a step backwards as the wind kept blowing. Tamika raised an eyebrow. Margo was walking _towards_ the wind instead of away from it. An odd choice, but after a moment, Tamika could see her reason. The trainer was taller than her. Larger. As they both got closer to the fan, he was struggling more to keep his balance.

Especially when the floor started shaking, too.

The trainer had been expecting it, but what he hadn't anticipated was how much stronger the shaking was on the edges of the room. Margo quickly ducked beneath a blow, then circled around behind the trainer, almost catching him off guard.

Almost. He was still faster. More experienced. Margo circled around again, but he followed her, blocking her blows as quickly as she could swing. Margo clenched her teeth, taking a step back, preparing for another attack.

The attack never came. The room plunged into darkness, and Margo immediately backed up, as far away from the trainer as she could get. She knew – she _had_ to – that he wouldn't kill her. That he wasn't allowed to. But every instinct was clearly telling her to get away from the situation, even if part of her knew that she wasn't in any real danger.

And she listened to her instincts. That was good. It was part of the Games. But relying solely on instinct could be just as dangerous as not listening to it at all. Finally, the lights came up, and the shaking stopped. Margo headed for the door without even looking back, clearly worried that she'd failed because she hadn't done anything in the last three minutes of the session. But three minutes were just that – a fraction of the time. A fifth. She'd used the other twelve minutes well. Tamika just hoped she wouldn't forget that.

* * *

 **8:31**

Merrik sat down at the snare station immediately, gathering the supplies he needed before getting to work. He clearly had a plan – a plan that would probably take the whole fifteen minutes in a normal session, judging by what he'd gathered. Tamika leaned back in her seat, wondering what the boy would do when he figured out it wasn't a normal session.

Sure enough, he did just fine until the rain started to pour down on his trap. It wasn't the rain itself that was the problem, of course; no part of his trap needed to stay dry in order to work. But it was a distraction – a distraction he immediately realized was going to cost him time. Merrik shook his head, setting aside a few of his supplies, turning his complex trap into a simpler snare that would be better at catching animals than people.

Making something simpler was a good idea, but the smaller size of the trap meant it blew around even more when the wind began to pick up. Merrik cursed quietly, trying his best to use his own body to shield the trap from the wind. It wasn't a bad idea – at least until the floor started to shake.

"Damn it," Merrik muttered again, putting the pieces of his trap back together as the floor rocked around him. The trap was smaller now – barely large enough to catch a squirrel or a rabbit. But it was what he was going to be able to finish in the time he had, especially since the room quickly went dark.

Fortunately, the trap itself was mostly finished by the time the lights went off. All it needed was some bait. Tamika could see Merrik feeling around in the dark, making his way to the edible plants station. He grabbed the first berries he found, stumbled back to his trap, and placed them inside just as the lights came up.

Only then did he realize what he'd grabbed. Immediately, he let out a defeated sigh, turned, and left the room. In the dark, he'd grabbed a handful of poisonous berries. Not a lure that any sort of animal was likely to go for. Tamika nodded as the door closed behind him. It wasn't his fault he hadn't had time, of course. It wasn't fair. But nothing in the Games was going to be fair, either. And it would be better for him if he learned that lesson now.

* * *

 **8:48**

Dinah quickly made her way to the knife station and chose two larger knives, then nodded to the trainer, who quickly did the same. Dinah took a swing, but the trainer quickly dodged. He dodged the next blow, too, then took a swing of his own. Dinah dodged, but only just in time. She circled around, trying to follow the trainer's moves. The two of them traded a few blows, and she wasn't doing badly for someone who had probably never held a weapon in her life before three days ago.

When the sprinklers went off, Dinah burst out laughing, taking a step back from the trainer to glance around for an explanation. When she got none, she shrugged, turning her attention back to the fight. But the floor was slippery now, and as she took a step backwards, she lost her footing.

Dinah shook her head, scrambling to her feet and hurling the knife at the nearest dummy. "Let's try something else for a little while," she suggested as the knife clattered to the floor, the dummy completely unharmed. Dinah made her way to the shelter station and began building. Tamika nodded. Not a bad idea, really. If someone happened to find themselves caught in a storm during the Games, that would probably take priority over most things.

But not a fight. Once she was in the Games, she wouldn't be able to simply abandon a fight if it started raining. She could run away, of course, but she couldn't expect another tribute to simply throw down their weapon and stop fighting if the weather wasn't perfect.

For the moment, though, her plan seemed to be working quite nicely. She'd draped a piece of fabric over a low pole probably meant to represent a branch, and she was building the structure from the inside out, managing to keep herself mostly dry as she secured the ends of the fabric to the floor. Then she took a seat and began preparing to make a small fire inside her shelter.

At least, that was the idea until the wind started blowing, ripping the ends of her makeshift tent from their places and spraying rain into her shelter. "Shit!" Dinah hissed, rushing to salvage her work amid the rain and the wind.

By the time the floor began to shake, she'd apparently decided the shelter was a lost cause, and picked up her knife again, charging at the trainer from behind. The trainer chuckled as he turned. "Clever, trying to catch me off guard. But not clever enough." He swiped low, tapping her on the leg. If the blade had been sharp, and if he had been _trying_ to hurt her, it would have been a serious injury.

But he wasn't trying to. And by the time the room went dark, Dinah wasn't trying to do much of anything. She stepped back from the trainer, keeping her distance, and backed right into one of the dummies. She whirled around, startled, and buried her knife in the dummy's chest as the lights came back on. Immediately, she turned and headed out of the room as the trainer removed the knife from the dummy with a shrug.

* * *

 **9:05**

Aleyn headed for the climbing station immediately and began scrambling up one of the makeshift trees, finding her footing quite well. She was high up in the branches before the sprinklers started spraying, and climbed down a few branches when it did, using the higher ones to shield herself from the water. It would probably have worked a little better if they'd given the trees leaves to go with them.

It didn't take Aleyn long to realize the rain wasn't going to stop anytime soon. After a moment, she broke off one of the branches and began sharpening it. Maybe she figured climbing down in the rain wasn't worth the risk. Or maybe she figured it wouldn't be a good representation of what she would do once she was in the Games. If it was raining, shelter – _any_ kind of shelter – was a good thing. And, for the moment, the tree counted.

So she kept sharpening the stick as the wind began to blow the rain, shaking the tree a little. Then a little more. Aleyn scooted in closer to the trunk of the tree, clinging a little tighter as she kept sharpening the stick into a spear. Once the floor began to shake, however, the tree began to lean. Aleyn clung tightly to the trunk, either too afraid to climb down or sensible enough to know letting go, even for a moment, would make her more likely to fall.

If she fell now, of course, there was a net to catch her. But if she fell in the Games, it would make little difference whether the tree fell on its own or whether she fell trying to climb down from it. Either one would probably lead to a severe injury, even if it didn't kill her. She was probably right that it was better not to take the chance.

So when the room turned dark, Aleyn held onto the tree. For three minutes, she simply clung to it as hard as she could, trying not to fall. And she didn't fall; that was something.

Not much, but something.

As soon as the lights came up, Aleyn took her half-finished spear and heaved it at the nearest dummy before climbing down. It hit the dummy, but didn't stick deep enough and clattered to the floor. Aleyn shook her head as she left. She'd clearly been expecting to have time to do better – or at least to do _more_. But once the tributes were in the Games, they wouldn't have all the time they wanted. They would only have the time they were willing to fight for.

* * *

 **9:22**

Arabel immediately chose a bow and a quiver of arrows, then chose a position close to the dummies to begin with. Her first arrow grazed the dummy's shoulder. The next struck it in the chest. A third lodged in its side.

Then Arabel took a few steps back, shooting again. Two of the arrows struck the dummy; the other three went wide. Clearly irritated, Arabel headed over to collect the arrows and try again. But she only got off one more shot before the sprinklers went off.

Undeterred by the rain, she shot again. But the water was making the bow slippery, which she clearly wasn't used to and had no idea how to compensate for. The shot went wild, and so did the next one. Arabel grunted, frustrated, as a third shot missed the dummy completely. She took a few steps closer, trying to adjust her aim. The next arrow missed, as well, but it was a lot closer than the last few, and the next one finally struck the dummy in the stomach.

Satisfied, Arabel backed up again and took another shot, grazing the dummy's head. The next arrow struck the dummy's shoulder, and the next flew close to its thigh. Just as she was beginning to get the hang of it, however, the wind began to pick up. Arabel immediately threw the bow to the floor, disgusted.

After a moment, however, she thought better of it, and quickly chose a position on the other side of the dummies so that she could shoot with the wind rather than against it. The first shot flew over the dummy's head, and the next just above its shoulder. Arabel took a few steps closer and tried again, this time striking the center of its chest. Grinning, she backed up a little. Then a little more.

The next two shots hit the target, but as soon as the floor began to shake, her shots went wild. She could barely keep her own balance, let alone try to hit a target while it was shaking back and forth. Arabel threw the bow to the floor again, but this time raced towards the dummy and tackled it to the floor, grabbing a nearby knife and stabbing at it as rapidly as she could as the lights went off.

By the time they came back on again, the dummy was a mangled mess, and Arabel was smiling a little. Maybe she'd just needed to let off some steam after the frustration of having her demonstration seemingly ruined. And it wasn't as if the dummy had been able to fight back. But at least it was something none of the other tributes had attempted yet.

* * *

 **9:39**

Emmett headed to the knife station immediately and chose a blade, but instead of asking the trainer to fight or going after one of the dummies, he ran the knife along his index finger, drawing a little blood before running the finger along his lips. "Strange," he muttered. "You always hear about a thirst for blood. A _thirst_ , as if it's something sweet. But it's not really about the taste, is it." He inhaled deeply. "It's about the smell."

The trainer took a step forward, glancing at Tamika, but she shook her head. The boy wasn't planning to harm himself; that wasn't what this was about. Emmett's voice was low as he continued. "I was fourteen the first time I smelled it – _really_ smelled it. Sure, people had gotten hurt during training before … but never quite like _that_. It's different, isn't it, when you _mean_ to hurt someone. It's a different smell. A different taste. A different feel."

He ran the knife along the back of his hand. A tiny slice, but this time Tamika nodded a little. The trainer stepped forward again, ready to take Emmett's weapon away. Emmett chuckled a little. "Of course. Wouldn't want to rush things. You're all too happy to satisfy the audience's desire for blood – but only on _your_ terms. Only once the Games start."

He tossed the knife to the trainer as the sprinklers began dousing him with water. Emmett shook his head as the trainer caught the knife. "That's all I ever wanted, you know – for it to be on _my_ terms. To be the one in control. But that's the problem, you see. I can't control it. Once I start … I know I won't be able to stop. And maybe that's what you want. Hell, maybe it's even what _I_ want. But I don't really _know_. I've never known. I've never really been in control, never been able to satisfy that _desire_." He cocked his head a little, staring straight at her. "Have _you_?"

Tamika resisted the urge to look away. It wasn't about that. It had never been about that. She hadn't become a Gamemaker out of a desire to watch the tributes suffer. There were those who had, of course. But they didn't usually last long. Because it was about exactly that – satisfying _their_ thirst. They didn't understand what the Games were really about.

It wasn't about her. It wasn't about the tributes. It wasn't even about the Capitol audience. Not really. They enjoyed it, of course. They sponsored the tributes. But the purpose – the real purpose – of the Games had always been to keep the districts in line. Nothing more, nothing less.

Emmett didn't seem to understand that, either. He continued on as the wind started to blow, as the floor began to shake, as darkness filled the room. He seemed to understand his place in the Games quite well, but that was _all_ he understood, in the end. Whatever he thought of himself, whatever anyone else thought of him, the Games weren't _about_ him. And they never would be.

* * *

 **9:55**

Ronan quickly headed for the weapons stations and chose the first weapon he found – a double-bladed axe. He flashed a grin at the trainer, who quickly chose a similar axe, though not quite as bulky. Ronan took the first swing, then the next. The trainer simply dodged out of the way. Ronan swung again, and again, narrowly missing his target every time.

After a few minutes of dancing back and forth, Ronan was clearly beginning to tire. By the time the sprinklers started to rain down on them, Ronan burst out laughing, grateful for the water to cool him off. "Thanks!" he called, breathing hard between strokes. "I was just wishing for a little something to cool down!"

Just as he said it, however, the trainer finally swung, catching Ronan off-guard. "Shit!" he muttered as he barely managed to dodge the trainer's blow in time. But he recovered quickly. "I was wondering when you were going to start fighting back."

The trainer smirked. "Once you were tired enough to make a mistake."

Ronan forced a smile. "Who's tired? I could do this all day?" As if to make his point, he swung again – hard. But as the trainer stepped out of the way, Ronan kept going, crashing into one of the dummies. He barely recovered his balance in time to roll out of the way of the trainer's next blow. As he scrambled to his feet, he grabbed a smaller dagger from the nearest pile. "Time for something else, I think."

"Good idea," the trainer agreed, swapping his own axe for a smaller blade, as well. Ronan barely gave him any time to choose his weapon before lunging, aiming a little too high. The trainer ducked, aiming for Ronan's legs, tapping them a little as he circled and the wind began to blow.

Ronan kicked, frustrated, as the trainer leapt out of the way again. His new weapon was lighter, but it didn't have as much of a reach, and the trainer was clearly quicker. Ronan swung again, stepping closer – but not close enough to allow the trainer to hit him. The two of them traded blows until the floor began to shake beneath their feet.

Ronan staggered a little, struggling to keep his balance. His jaw was clenched tightly, maybe biting back a comment about how unfair this was. His smile was gone, and he said nothing as he lunged at the trainer again, continuing their dance until the lights went off. Immediately, Ronan froze, then began backing up in the dark. Farther and farther from the trainer, until he was pinned up against the wall. He stood motionless until the lights came back up again, then turned and left without a word.

* * *

 **10:12**

Retro didn't glance at the trainer as he entered. He didn't even look up at Tamika and her fellow Gamemakers. He simply headed straight for the snare station and began building a small trap. At least, it looked like a small trap at first, barely large enough to catch a squirrel or maybe a rabbit. But as the seconds ticked away, the trap grew a little larger. Then a little more. Retro kept adding bits and pieces to the trap even as the rain began to pour down on him. He shook his head a little, only focusing harder on his work as he realized it would take longer to finish.

It did take longer, but as the wind began to blow, he kept adding pieces to his trap. A few of them blew off in the wind, but he kept going. A little rope here, a little bit of wire there. By the time the floor started to shake, the trap was large enough to perhaps catch another tribute – but only if they happened to step in _exactly_ the right spot.

That didn't seem altogether likely, especially with the floor shaking like this. Bits and pieces began to fall off the trap. Retro cursed under his breath as he struggled to piece his trap back together as one piece and then another flew off. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "Okay, get it together."

But he didn't get it together. The room went dark, and Retro immediately panicked, backing up into one of the poles behind him. He let out a yelp of surprise as he whirled around in the dark, maybe expecting one of the trainers behind him. But there was no one there.

Tamika shook her head as the boy fumbled around in the dark, trying to find his way back to his trap in time to spring it. Even in the dark, he had to know his time was running out. It wasn't his fault, really. He'd never prepared for this. He'd probably never imagined himself in this position.

But most of them probably hadn't. That was the beauty of the Quell – and the tragedy, really. It was a little reminder that not even the most prepared districts were safe, that even loyal districts were only protected by the favor of the Capitol. As soon as the president said the word, unprepared children from Career districts could be chosen just like the rest.

Retro was breathing hard by the time the lights finally came up. He glanced around, surprised. Disoriented. He had clearly thought he was somewhere near his trap, but he'd made his way to the opposite side of the room. He turned and left, leaving the bits and pieces of his trap behind him on the floor.

* * *

 **10:30**

Vashti let out a sigh as he entered the room – a sigh he didn't even try to hide. He glanced briefly at the weapons, but quickly decided against it. _Right choice._ He'd been trying his best during training to protect himself, trying not to let the other tributes know his secret.

It wasn't a secret from her, of course. Tributes' medical histories were open to the Gamemakers, for whatever that information was worth. Most districts didn't keep much in the way of records, of course, aside from the necessary birth and death records required by the Capitol, and a record of who had taken tesserae. But District Five was more fortunate than most, and Vashti's condition had been properly diagnosed by the time he was eleven.

Not that being able to put a name to it was going to help him in the Games. He had to be careful even now, and he clearly knew it. So instead of picking up a weapon, he immediately headed for the survival stations and began fashioning some makeshift armor out of the snare supplies. He wasn't doing a bad job of it, either, until the rain started.

Then he panicked. The rain itself wasn't going to hurt him, of course, but he was smart enough to figure out that the rain wouldn't be the end of it. He immediately changed course from his armor and began building a shelter instead – a shelter to protect himself from the rain, but also from whatever might follow.

By the time the wind began, he'd built a small fort out of a few of the larger shields, tied together with rope from the snare station. It wasn't much, but it was enough for him to huddle inside while the wind blew, the rain pelting the outside of his shelter. Tamika nodded. Maybe he wasn't actively _doing_ much, but he was keeping himself safe. That was something.

Something, yes. But not much. And certainly not everything. Once the tributes were in the Games, how long could someone last if they had to be careful of every scrape and scratch? Every one of the forty nine Victors so far had been injured at some point during the Games. Some had fared better than others, of course, but none had emerged without a scratch.

There was a first time for everything, of course, but was this really going to be it? Tamika glanced around as the lights went out and Vashti huddled inside his shelter, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for everything to pass. Once they were in the Games, though, how long would it be before he was put in a position where he couldn't simply wait for the worst to pass before acting? How long before something – _anything_ – caught up to him? It wouldn't take much, really. It wouldn't take much at all.

The lights came back up, and Vashti's face grew red as he emerged from his shelter, glaring up at the Gamemakers. But he said nothing as he stormed out the door. What was there to say? He knew what she had been trying to do. He understood. But what could he have done differently?

* * *

 **10:47**

Macauley headed for the knife station, stuffing a few of the smaller throwing knives into her pockets – probably for later use. Then she turned to the trainer, grinning as she chose a small dagger. "Well? Let's get to it."

They did. Macauley made the first move – and the next, and the next, barely giving the trainer time to dodge her blows before striking again. Maybe she wasn't quite on par with Careers from a regular year, but this year … well, this was already one of the better performances they'd seen so far.

When the rain began, however, everything changed. Macauley leapt back from the trainer, startled. "What's going on?" she demanded, turning towards the Gamemakers. "What is all this?"

Tamika didn't answer. She simply nodded. In reply, the trainer lunged at Macauley, who staggered backwards before regaining her composure and striking again. After a moment, she pulled one of the knives from her pocket and hurled it at a target as she and the trainer continued to trade blows. It struck the target, but only on the outside. "Slipped because of the stupid rain," Macauley growled.

She was more careful next time. The knife didn't slip, and it hit almost the center of the target. "Yes!" Macauley grinned, giving the trainer just enough time to circle around and tap her on the back with his dagger. "Hey!" she shouted, her face growing red, realizing her mistake. She'd stopped to celebrate – something that could be dangerous once the Games began.

Just then, the wind started to pick up. Macauley let out a little yelp as the next knife nearly blew out of her hand. "What the hell?" she demanded, but, when she got no response aside from the trainer's next swing, the pair of them resumed their fight. She was doing well until the floor started to shake, throwing her off balance and allowing the trainer, who was quite used to it by now, to gain the upper hand.

Macauley snarled as she lunged, a little too hard and a little too fast. Her own weight propelled her forward; all the trainer had to do was step out of the way and allow her own momentum to carry her headfirst into one of the dummies, which broke her fall quite nicely. "Good aim," the trainer joked.

Macauley's face reddened again, and she scrambled to her feet and lashed out quickly just as the room went dark. "Damn it!" she shouted, loud enough, Tamika was certain, for the tributes in the next room to hear her despite the thick walls and door. Tamika held back a chuckle, resolving to wipe the smile off her face by the time Macauley could see her again. She leaned back a little in her chair as Macauley, at a loss for anything else to do, began stabbing at the dummy she'd fallen onto.

Not a bad way to spend her remaining time, but not really the best use of it, either. By the time the lights came back on, Tamika's face was expressionless once more, but Macauley didn't even glance up to see it. She turned and stormed out of the room, only stopping once she reached the door and realized she still had a few knives in her pocket. She threw the remaining three knives at the target, where they lodged nicely towards the center.

* * *

 **11:05**

Elliot headed for the spear station as soon as he entered the room, but instead of picking one from the pile, he chose a long, wooden staff and began sharpening it into a spear on one of the nearby rocks. He worked quickly, decisively, knowing he couldn't afford to waste time being careful. It took time, of course, to get the balance of a spear just right. But time wasn't something they would always have in the Games, and certainly wasn't something he would have right now.

After a few minutes, the rain began to pour, drenching both the staff he was sharpening and the rock he was using to sharpen it. Elliot bit his lip, holding back whatever he was about to say. He knew it wasn't much good trying to sharpen damp wood. But he obviously didn't want to accept that he'd just wasted three minutes, either. So he stood up, half-sharpened spear in hand, and nodded to the trainer.

The trainer was smiling as he chose a fully formed spear from the pile. The rain fell harder, and Elliot quickly saw the flaw in his plan. Even if he _had_ managed to fully sharpen the spear, it was now wet. Every blow from the trainer's spear was quickly breaking pieces off his own weapon. A few small splinters at first, but the harder the rain poured, the wetter the wood became.

By the time the wind started, Elliot was fighting to hold his own weapon together. "Great," he muttered as the trainer's spear finally broke the wood in two. He tossed the weapon aside and grabbed another – an actual spear this time – in time to block the trainer's blow. The two of them danced back and forth, dodging and blocking each other's blows, as the floor began to shake beneath them. Elliot managed a smile in Tamika's direction as he lunged, trying to sweep the trainer's feet out from under him.

It didn't work, but he also didn't make the same mistake Macauley had. He hadn't put all of his weight into the lunge, and was able to control it a little better. He only stumbled a little, quickly regaining his balance in time to block a few more blows before the room went dark.

Confused, Elliot started swinging his spear. The trainer backed away as soon as he realized what the boy was doing. There didn't seem to be any pattern to Elliot's swings; he obviously didn't know where the trainer was. But this had apparently seemed like a better idea than standing there and doing nothing for the remainder of his time.

And on that count, at least, Tamika definitely agreed with him. By the time he was finished, every dummy nearby lay in pieces, and Elliot was grinning as the lights finally came back up. Not bad against someone who couldn't fight back, and even the trainer had had the sense to back away. Not bad at all.

* * *

 **11:24**

Lena was smiling a little as she headed for the edible plants station. "It's nearly lunchtime," she commented. "Maybe time to cook up a little meal." She chose a few of the edible plants and tossed them into an overturned shield, using it as a makeshift bowl. "Not a bad lunch, especially in the arena. You'd be lucky to find this much food, usually, a few days into the Games."

She tossed in a few more plants, calmly narrating. "A few days … Yeah, that's usually the amount of time it takes for tributes to be _really_ hungry. Hungry enough that they might just grab whatever's handy and hope that it's edible. Hungry enough to be desperate. Hungry enough to convince themselves that, no, _this_ isn't that poisonous plant they saw during training – just one that looks like it." She tossed in a few poisonous berries as the rain began to fall.

Lena barely seemed to notice the rain. "The trick, of course, is getting the other tributes to actually _eat_ what you've prepared. If a tribute happens to come across your camp, I suppose, and if they look dangerous enough, you could try to run and hope they count themselves lucky to stumble across your food. Hope that they're more hungry than they are bloodthirsty, and they might leave you alone if it means getting their hands on a good meal sooner. _Or_ … a not so good meal."

The wind began to blow, mixing a few of the plants together. Lena smiled a little as she sorted them back out again, mixing a little of this and a little of that. As the floor began to shake, she chose two small sheaths from the dagger section and brought them over to her pile of plants. She mixed a little of this and a little of that, then looked up, as though waiting for something.

She didn't have to wait long. The room went dark. Tamika heard a bit of a scuffing noise as Lena turned her back to the Gamemakers, mixing something together. A little scraping here, a little stirring there. Tamika could see what she was doing, but not the specific plants she was using. _Smart._ Almost as if she'd been expecting…

As the lights came back up, Tamika held out the pair of sheaths, each brimming with the liquid she had poured into them. "One's poison; the other isn't," she remarked casually. "Care to take your chances?"

Tamika practically giggled as she leapt down from her chair, snatching the sheath from Lena's left hand and taking a big gulp. "Wait!" Lena cried, and the panic in her voice gave her away. She hadn't _really_ expected anyone to take her up on it. But Tamika headed back to her seat calmly, completely unharmed.

Lena stared – at Tamika, and then at the drink that remained in her hand. "But … but that one was poison."

Tamika raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

"I…"

"Sure enough to bet _your_ life?" Tamika nodded towards the drink in Lena's hand.

Lena hesitated a moment, but then shook her head, pouring the drink out on the floor. "No."

 _Smart girl._ Tamika smiled as Lena left the room. The girl had no idea. None of them did. There were never _really_ poisonous berries available for the tributes before the Games. Oh, they looked exactly like the poisonous ones, of course, but they'd been genetically modified to be harmless. They couldn't have a tribute keeling over at one of the edible plants stations because they'd made a mistake – or, worse, deciding to take the easy way out before the Games started. No one had really been in any danger – least of all her.

But it was the timing that had been suspicious. Almost as if Lena had known it was going to get dark enough to try to pull her trick off. Tamika glanced at the other Gamemakers, who nodded. _Finally_.

* * *

 **11:42**

Charu quickly headed for the climbing station and began scurrying up one of the steeper inclines. Tamika nodded. She'd been watching during training, of course, and Charu had gotten pretty good at the obstacle course. Not really surprising, then, that she would choose to show off those skills rather than her meager weapons skills.

In fact, she'd barely spent any time at the weapons stations over the last three days. She'd done a little of this and a little of that, but most of her time had been spent at stations that seemed a bit more fun. Climbing, running, the obstacle course – all useful things, perhaps, but without the weapons skills to go with them…

Tamika glanced up as Charu made it to the top of the wall just as the rain began to pour. Not bad at all. She certainly had speed on her side. But was she going to be able to make it down the slope in the rain? That was the real question.

It was a question that didn't get answered. Charu chuckled as the rain continued to drench the room, then leapt into the net below, bouncing a little before rolling off. Not a bad idea, all things considered. At least she'd recognized that she would have fallen, anyway, and decided this would be a quicker way to get on with things.

Or maybe … maybe jumping had just seemed like more fun. Charu was still grinning as she headed for the wall again, going slower this time because of the rain – especially when the wind began to blow. She clung to the handholds she had found, getting her bearings amid the wind. But when the floor began to shake, she leapt into the net once more, scrambling out of the way, trying to find somewhere solid to stand.

Of course, there was nowhere, but that didn't stop her from dancing around, trying to find a position where she wouldn't fall over. If nothing else, she would be able to hold her own if it came down to a dancing match with another tribute.

Which it wouldn't.

By the time the lights went off, Charu was still bouncing all over the place, trying not to fall over, trying not to run into the dummies, trying to keep moving as the floor shook beneath her. Unlike so many of the other tributes, she didn't stop moving when the lights went out. She kept going, her hands outstretched to keep from running into anything as she kept circling the room. She was still smiling when the lights came up, and took a little bow before leaving the room.

* * *

 **11:59**

Nephelle took a seat at the plants station and began sorting the plants into three different piles. It took Tamika a few moments to work out what the third pile was. "Edible" and "non-edible" were fairly obvious, but there was a third pile off to the side, smaller than either of the others. But when Tamika finally put it together, she smiled, satisfied.

Nephelle kept sorting as the rain began to fall, placing an overturned shield over each of the piles. She even started humming a little as she went, a quiet tune that seemed to keep time with the rain. Tamika held back a laugh. If she _was_ going to hum during the Games, during a rainstorm seemed a reasonable time to do it. No one was likely to hear her over the sound of the rain, especially when it was joined by the wind.

It was Nephelle's turn to hold back a laugh when the wind started. "Good thing I was already using these," she noted, tapping one of the shields as she slid a few plants underneath. "Otherwise, those things would be all over the place, and I'd have to start again."

She was right, of course. But the _way_ she'd said it … there was something suspicious about it. Almost as if she'd been expecting it to start raining, expecting the wind to start blowing. Then, sure enough, as the floor began to shake, she placed a few heavier objects on top of each of the shields, holding them fast as she retreated to the hatchet station, leaving her sorted piles intact beneath the shields.

She wasn't quite as good with the hatchet, especially with the floor shaking beneath her, but she managed to chop a few arms off some of the smaller dummies before the lights went out. Just before it did, she flung the hatchet at one of the nearer targets, where it stuck with a thud on one of the outer rings.

Not bad. Nephelle made her way back to her piles, ready when the lights came up to flip over the lids for examination. "Edible and non-edible," she explained, pointint to two of the piles. "Know what these ones are?" She pointed to the third.

Tamika nodded. "I believe so … but please, for any of my colleagues who may not have figured it out…"

Nephelle smiled a little. "Edible, but better to avoid unless you have a good water supply. Anything salty, anything that will make you thirsty or take more energy to chew up than it would actually give you." She shrugged. "Just because it's edible doesn't mean it's good for you."

* * *

 **12:16**

Thomas glanced around uneasily as he entered the room, as if worried that the room might explode … or maybe that a storm would start. Tamika leaned back in her chair. _Someone_ had been giving the other tributes hints about what was coming. She had a couple of guesses about who, but that wasn't important right now. They would figure out later who was responsible.

What was important now was what the tributes _did_ with that information, and Thomas seemed more inclined to ignore whatever advice had been given to him. He quickly chose a small axe and nodded to the trainer, who chose a similar one. Thomas took a step forward, then another, as if reluctant to make the first move. The trainer shrugged. "Whenever you're ready. I've got all day."

He did. But Thomas didn't. He circled a little longer before the first drops of rain spurred him into action. He swung, but he was holding back, as if worried that he might actually _hurt_ the trainer.

He wouldn't, of course. The Capitol wasn't stupid. They took precautions. The weapons weren't really sharp enough to do any damage through the trainer's protective clothing, and it wasn't as if he was going to be stupid enough to actually allow himself to be struck in any case. But as Thomas swung again, he clearly wasn't putting all his effort into it.

Maybe it was conscious. Maybe it wasn't. It didn't really matter, in the end. Once he was in the Games, it wouldn't matter whether he was actively _trying_ to spare another tribute's life, or whether his subconscious held him back. The result would be the same. Tributes who weren't willing to kill didn't last long.

Or maybe … maybe he was holding back. _Pretending_ to be reluctant to kill. Tamika leaned back in her chair as the wind began to blow, followed by the rumbling as the floor began to shake. She was probably giving him more credit than he deserved. Feigning reluctance might be useful around more reluctant allies who might be frightened away if a tribute appeared too bloodthirsty, but would do little now unless he was deliberately trying to get a low score.

The room went dark, and Thomas went still. Absolutely still. For three minutes, he barely moved, as if frozen in his spot. When the lights came back up, he glanced around for a moment before laying the axe back in its place and calmly leaving the room.

* * *

 **12:33**

Mariska started by choosing an assortment of knives, sticking some in her pockets and placing the rest in a pile off to one side for later use. She chose one of the larger ones first and flung it at the nearest target. It bounced off harmlessly, but Mariska didn't even glance up at the Gamemakers as she fired another one. Then another. The third – a smaller knife than the others – finally stuck, and the fourth struck a little closer to the center.

The fifth went wide, and the sixth a little too high, but the seventh stuck nicely in the bottom of the target. Not bad for someone who probably hadn't held a weapon until recently. Mariska glanced at the clock. She seemed to be counting down.

Just as the sprinklers went off, Mariska retrieved her first knife – the big one – and charged at the trainer. There was no hesitation in her movement, no reluctance, no doubt. But also no chance that she would actually harm anyone; the trainer still had more than enough time to prepare for her attack, and blocked the blow with a knife of his own.

Mariska growled, as if, for a moment, she'd actually been hoping that she might be able to hurt him. But surely she realized what that would mean. If one tribute accidentally harmed another, that might be dismissed as an accident. Even an early death during training might be forgiven. But if a tribute actually managed to seriously harm a _trainer_ …

Tamika shook the thought from her head as the pair of them traded blows. In fifty years of the Games, no trainer had been seriously harmed. The only ones who had come to scoring a serious blow were Careers, and they knew when to stop. This year, there were only a few proper Careers, anyway, and they'd already had their turn. It would only get more tedious as the day went on.

Mariska and the trainer continued to spar as the wind picked up speed. Only one more year, and everything would return to normal. Twenty-four tributes. By this time, she would be done; Mariska was the twenty-fourth, and she was nearly finished. She circled around behind the trainer and lunged at his legs just as the floor began to shake beneath their feet. Caught off-guard, the trainer didn't have time to dodge properly and instead kicked the knife out of Mariska's hand. "Bastard!" Mariska clutched her fingers, but was clearly more alarmed than hurt. She grabbed the nearest weapon – a hatchet – and charged again.

This time, however, she swung too hard, and the trainer easily dodged, knocking her to the floor, instead. Mariska staggered to her feet as the room continued to shake, managing to keep her balance until the room went dark.

As soon as it did, she dropped to the floor, but instead of staying put, she continued to crawl silently towards the trainer. He backed away, back towards the wall behind him. Maybe he was beginning to tire. Maybe Mariska got lucky. Either way, her hand closed around his ankle, and she gave a satisfied tug on his leg, then quickly scampered out of the way before he could kick at her again.

Tamika smiled as the lights came back up and Mariska strode out of the room without another word. Tamika chuckled a little, then turned to one of the other Gamemakers. "Do go get that last knife out of her pocket before she uses it, would you?"

* * *

 **12:40**

Klaudia entered the room slowly, as if somehow unsure whether it was her turn. Tamika leaned back a little, waiting patiently as Klaudia chose one of the smaller knives, then put it back, reaching for a larger, jagged one. Then, shaking her head, she replaced that one, as well, choosing a shorter, thinner blade from the side of the pile. She looked up, then back at the knife she had chosen, as if waiting for their approval.

Tamika didn't give any indication of approval. Or disapproval, for that matter, but that didn't seem to make a difference. Klaudia backed away a little, knife in hand, before quietly exchanging her knife for a different one. She ran her fingers gently along the handle, as if waiting for something.

What she was waiting for, Tamika wasn't sure, but it apparently wasn't the rain. The sprinklers went off, and Klaudia nearly jumped. Then she turned, bending over slightly, and began retching. Vomit spewed onto the floor as Klaudia staggered backwards, trying to catch her breath, trying to calm herself down. It wasn't working.

One of the other Gamemakers stood up, but Tamika shook her head. If something like this happened in the arena, there wouldn't be anyone to step in and save her. No one to her her calm down. She had to learn that _now,_ or…

The wind began to blow, and Klaudia frantically glanced around for shelter. Not finding any, she curled up into a ball on the floor, eyes closed, trembling as she rocked back and forth, waiting for the wind to subside.

Of course, it didn't subside. The floor began to shake, and Klaudia squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, waiting for it to be over. Waiting for everything to pass. Darkness filled the room, but she probably didn't even notice. Aside from her shaking, she didn't move an inch. Not even when the lights came back up.

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of her time, but Klaudia didn't get up. Maybe she couldn't get up. A minute passed. Then another. Finally, Tamika sighed and nodded to one of the other Gamemakers, who strode over and helped her to her feet. Klaudia swayed dizzily as she was led from the room.

* * *

 **13:03**

Barlen smiled warmly as he entered the room, completely undeterred by the delay Klaudia had caused. He glanced at something on the inside of his arm. Probably a note of some sort. She'd seen him writing a few things down over the last few days, usually at Leo's direction. She couldn't see what he'd written this time, but the boy headed for the first aid station.

Not much of a surprise there. He and Leo had spent almost the entirety of their training time at the same station. Barlen plopped down on the floor with a dummy and ran a knife along one of its arms, making an incision. He hesitated only a moment before selecting one of the needles from the first aid bag, threading it, and beginning to sew.

It wasn't a bad attempt, really, for someone who had almost certainly never tried anything of the sort before training. Maybe there was something to be said for repeating the same motions over and over again. His hands seemed to remember what to do even if his brain wasn't sure. By the time the rain started, he'd stitched up the incision and already made another.

As soon as the rain started, however, Barlen leapt to his feet, terrified. "Wait! What's going on?" he cried. Whether he was confused by the rain or the fact that he was in a room piled high with weapons and supplies, Tamika wasn't sure. It didn't matter. Barlen ran for the door immediately, shouting "Fire!" all the way.

"Should we get him back?" one of the other Gamemakers asked.

Tamika shook her head. "No, don't. No need to be pointlessly cruel." The boy had already shown them the best he had to offer; bringing him back to see how he handled the rest would be pointless. At least he'd had the sense to leave; part of her wished Klaudia had done the same and saved them all a lot of time.

* * *

 **13:08**

Ti looked around, baffled, as he entered the room. Maybe he was looking for the fire his district partner had been screaming about. Maybe he was trying to figure out why he'd been called for his session after only five minutes rather than the usual fifteen.

Whatever the reason, Ti quickly shook off his confusion and headed for the knife station. He chose two knives – a smaller one and a larger one – and nodded to the trainer, who chose two of his own. Ti charged, aiming a little high. All the trainer had to do was duck beneath his blow, then turn around and tap Ti on the back with one of his own knives.

Ti gripped the knives tighter, well aware that if this was a real fight, he could have been seriously injured by now. He swung again, and again. The trainer stepped this way and that, dodging one blow after another, and finally taking a swing of his own. Ti blocked the trainer's knife with his larger one, then dropped the knife to grab the trainer's wrist, circling around and trying to wrench the knife from the trainer's grasp.

On someone else, the move might have worked. Someone unprepared, or someone who wasn't as strong. As it was, the trainer held onto the knife and circled around again as the sprinklers went off.

Ti chuckled a little, realizing. "Fire. Got it." He and the trainer continued to trade blows, not bothered by the rain or the wind. When the floor began to shake, Ti backed away from the trainer – towards a dummy. He hurled his knife at the dummy, landing it nicely – if not particularly deeply – in the dummy's stomach. He grinned. It had clearly been a lucky throw, but luck was part of the Games.

Just as he was celebrating, however, the trainer lunged, knocking Ti off balance as the floor continued to shake. Ti cursed quietly and grabbed another weapon – a longer dagger that happened to be lying nearby. He scrambled to his feet, trying to keep his balance despite the shaking. The trainer barely gave him time to recover before lunging again. Ti dodged the first stroke, but the second knocked him over again just as the room went dark.

It took Ti longer to get to his feet, but he did, slowly but surely making his way in the direction of the door, managing to sneak out just before the lights came up. Not a bad idea – trying to use the darkness to show how easily he could slip away. Tamika hid a smile as the trainer glanced around, confused, looking for the boy. If it had worked on him, maybe it would work on another tribute. Not a bad idea at all.

* * *

 **13:25**

Aven smiled up at the Gamemakers as she made her way towards the climbing wall. But instead of beginning to climb, she took a few of the dummies and placed them on the net below the wall. Then she positioned another one beside the net, and the next a little farther away. Finally, just as the sprinklers began to pour, she chose a knife from the nearest pile, stuck it in her pocket, and started climbing.

Climbing in the rain was slow, and she nearly slipped a couple times, but she made it to the top just as the wind began to blow. Aven closed her eyes for a few seconds, getting her bearings before beginning the climb down. Climbing down in the rain and the wind, however, was even harder than climbing up, and about halfway down, she slipped and dropped into the net below her, beside the dummies she had piled there.

Quickly catching her breath, Aven drew the knife from her pocket. She stabbed into one dummy and shoved the second off the net and onto the floor. There, she jumped on top of it, stabbing a few times before scrambling to her feet and rushing off, beneath the arm of the dummy she'd positioned near the net, and tackling the fourth to the floor. Not a bad idea, perhaps, but tributes wouldn't just stand there and let her tackle them.

Well, _most_ of them wouldn't, at least.

Tamika smiled a little as the floor started to shake, and Aven doubled back to the net, ducking beneath it as the floor continued to tremble. For a moment, Tamika thought perhaps she was going to stay there, but then she saw what Aven was doing. She was stabbing through the net and up into the dummies above her. She rolled out from under the net and the dummies just as the lights went out.

Now in the dark, she crawled towards the dummy she had placed near the net, taking it by the legs and wrestling it to the floor, stabbing wildly in the dark. By the time the lights came back up, she was sweating and breathing hard, and the dummy was in pieces in front of her. She ventured a glance up at the Gamemakers and smiled as she stood up. "Looks like he never saw what hit him," she giggled as she turned to go.

Tamika chuckled. "Wonder how long she was working on that one."

* * *

 **13:42**

Connor smirked as he made his way to the knife station, but his smile seemed more than a little forced. She could usually tell the difference, after all, between the ones who really were that confident and the ones who could put up an act for the cameras. All in all, she preferred the actors. They were more interesting to watch, easier to manipulate into doing something rash for the sake of proving themselves.

For the moment, however, Connor didn't seem interested in doing anything particularly out of the ordinary. He picked a few of the knives and went to work on a dummy with the first one. Tamika leaned back in her chair and tried not to sigh. How many tributes so far had done something with knives? It had to be at least half. She would go through and work out the numbers later, but it seemed to be more than usual.

She understood the appeal, of course. Knives were usually one of the easier things for a tribute to get their hands on in the Games. Knives could be hidden in the backpacks at the start of the Games, and there were usually plenty scattered around the edges of the cornucopia. They were versatile, a necessary tool for tributes, especially this year when even more of them than usual lacked any sort of training.

It was a weapon that made sense. A safe move, especially for tributes who might not even be trying to score high. Connor kept slashing away at the dummies as the sprinklers went off, then as the wind began to blow. Outer district tributes knew, after all, that high training scores came at a price. It was a balance. Tributes wanted to score high enough for the audience to notice them, but not high enough for the Careers to mark them as a target. There was a perfect spot somewhere in the middle, but very few of them ever hit it.

That wasn't their fault, of course. It was rigged. Unexpectedly high scores created drama, as did unexpectedly low ones. And that was the point, after all. To give the audience something to chew on until the Games actually began.

Connor continued to slash away at the dummies as the floor began to shake. He certainly had endurance; she had to give him that. But there was something to be said for actually fighting with the trainer rather than simply going after the dummies. Dummies didn't fight back. Dummies fell over more easily from the shaking floor.

Connor kept slashing as the room went dark, swinging blindly this way and that, hoping to hit something. He did hit a few things – most notably a stack of bows in one of the corners. He muttered quietly but kept swinging until the lights came back up, then quickly left the room.

* * *

 **13:59**

Skyton smiled up at the Gamemakers as he entered the room. "Do you have a horse?"

Tamika raised an eyebrow. "A horse?" she repeated. No one had ever asked for one of those during a private session before. "No, I don't think so."

One of her fellow Gamemakers looked up. "We have a—"

"No." Tamika cut him off before he could finish the thought. "Not in here." Letting the boy see some of the mutts beforehand would give him an unfair advantage. Besides, she didn't want him to get injured before the Games even began.

Skyton was watching her thoughtfully, glancing at the Gamemaker she'd interrupted, as if hoping for a little more of a hint about what to expect. When he got none, he shrugged. "Guess I'll just have to make do." He headed for the shelter making station and chose a large log. Quickly, he took one of the knives and started carving, shaving away the rougher parts of the log. He continued as the rain started to pour. By the time the wind started blowing, he'd carved away most of the bark and set the log on the floor in the middle of the room.

Then he waited. For almost three minutes, until the floor started shaking. Then he jumped on the log and held on as the floor shook beneath him, as if the log was an animal trying to toss him off. Was this why he'd asked for a horse? So that he could show off his skill with riding one? Tamika jotted down a note for later about making some animals available to tributes during training.

Skyton held on tightly as the log bounced up and down, lurched this way and that, just like a wild animal might do. Even as the lights went out, he managed to hold on. After the lights came back up and the room settled, he stood up, smiled up at the Gamemakers, and turned to go – but not before giving the log a gentle pat, as one might do a tame animal.

Tamika chuckled as he left. There had been a few tributes who used mutts to their advantage, and a couple who had gotten attached, including Skyton's mentor, Presley. Maybe there was more to the boy than she'd thought.

* * *

 **14:16**

Wes grinned as he entered the room, chuckling a little to himself as he made his way to the edible plants station. Once there, he began sorting, whistling a little to himself. Or, at least, it seemed at first like he was whistling to himself. After a moment, Tamika realized what he was doing. He was imitating bird calls, and doing a pretty good job of it, too.

Not a bad way to lure tributes into a trap, really. Make a few bird sounds, convince them that there might be a plump bird or two just waiting to be caught, and then take them by surprise. Whether that was what Wes had intended to convey with his whistling, she wasn't entirely sure. But it was something she'd never seen a tribute attempt to display during their private session, so he might get credit for originality when it came time to distribute scores.

Originality went a long way with the audience, when it really came down to it. They didn't want to see exactly the same sort of Victor they'd seen in past years. That was why most people hadn't been upset when a scrawny little twelve-year-old from Twelve had won the year before. People had been _surprised_ , of course, but not angry. She'd made an impression. She'd fought her way through the arena, tooth and nail, and she'd earned the audience's respect.

In order for Wes to do the same, however, he would need to do a lot more than sort a few plants and imitate a few birds, which was what he seemed content to do at the moment. He kept sorting as the rain began to fall, drenching his piles but not ruining them. Once the wind began to blow, however, his piles quickly scattered. "Shit," Wes muttered, his tone indicating that he hadn't realized how much time had passed. He threw a few of the plants off to one side and looked around helplessly for something to cover them with.

By the time he chose a shield from a pile, however, his plants had been hopelessly scattered. Wes tossed the shield to the floor, frustrated. He hesitated for a moment, perhaps weighing whether it was worth it to try and redo his piles. Apparently, he decided against it, because he headed for the snare station and began tying a few knots in one of the ropes, making a simple snare that would catch around a tribute's leg and leave them dangling from a tree.

Tamika nodded. A reasonable choice, given the amount of time he had left. But in order for a snare like that to work, a tribute would need to step in exactly the right spot, and getting someone to do that was trickier than it seemed. Wes didn't seem to care, however, quickly stringing up his trap as the floor shook beneath his feet. By the time the room went dark, he was almost done.

Almost. He still had a few finishing touches to put on the trap. As he fumbled around in the dark, however, he stepped in the wrong spot, springing his own trap. Tamika held back a chuckle as the lights came up and the trainer cut him down. Wes shrugged helplessly. "Well, I guess that's one way to get you to turn the lights back on."

* * *

 **14:33**

Kilian was all smiles as he entered and headed straight for the axe station. Instead of asking the trainer to fight, however, he chose a large log from the shelter-building supplies and began chopping, swinging confidently and still smiling. Almost laughing. As if he was actually having fun.

Maybe he was. Maybe he figured this would be more fun than having to think about fighting a trainer. Someone who would be able to fight back. This was easier. But he was still sweating by the time the sprinklers went off, dousing both him and the wood. Kilian let out a laugh. "About time," he blurted out before he could stop himself, then realized that he'd given away that he'd been expecting the water. "I mean, it's about time _something_ happened. Not necessarily water, but something."

Tamika winced sympathetically. The boy was a terrible liar. After a moment, he returned to his swinging, a little nervousness finally showing on his face.

A part of her wanted to tell him the truth. To assure him that she already knew someone had told the other tributes what to expect. Apparently, they had been very specific in their descriptions. That was all it would take to calm him down – knowing that he hadn't been the one to tip her off. That he wouldn't be the reason she found out.

Instead, she smiled as he kept swinging, watching as the wind began to blow and the smile faded from his face. By the time the floor began to shake, his expression was tightly knit into a grimace. Whether he was angry at himself, at whoever had told him what was coming, or at the Gamemakers for planning this sort of thing in the first place, Tamika couldn't tell.

Not that it mattered. Whatever the cause of his anger, his swings were growing even wilder as the floor kept shaking. He missed the log a few times, grunting in frustration as he moved it back into place. Once the room went dark, he tossed the axe to the floor, not wanting to swing in the dark, perhaps for fear of hitting himself.

There was no way to stop him from doing that, of course. They could blunt the edges of the blades and refuse to provide any truly poisonous plants, but if a tribute was really that determined to hurt themselves – or careless enough to cause an accident – there was only so much they could do. Still, it would be a shame for their streak of preventing pre-Games deaths to be broken now.

Kilian shook his head and took another step back in the dark, careful not to hit anything behind him. He bent over a little, catching his breath as the room continued to shake around him. It wasn't worth trying to keep going in the dark. Probably better to save his strength for tomorrow. He was going to need it.

* * *

 **14:50**

Shanali began jogging immediately as she entered the room, taking a couple laps around the room before heading for the archery station and choosing a bow and arrow. She took aim at the nearest target and fired three arrows. The first one struck near the edge but didn't go very deep. The third flew off to the left, missing completely. The last arrow struck near the center of the target, and Shanali smiled triumphantly as the sprinklers went off.

Shanali took another lap around the room – this time at a quicker pace than before. As she passed the archery station, she swiped up the bow and arrows, slinging them over her back as she ran. After taking another lap, she took the bow and put an arrow to the string as she ran. Tamika raised an eyebrow, curious. She'd been watching the girl shoot during training, but she'd never seen her try something like this.

Tamika held back a chuckle as Shanali let the arrow fly. It went about as well as could be expected for someone who had never tried a stunt like that before. The arrow flew too high, clattering off the wall. Undeterred, Shanali tried again as the wind started to blow. The wind only made it worse, and the arrow flew off to the right. The next one lodged solidly in a target, but not the one she'd been aiming for.

Finally, Shanali slowed down, coming to a stop facing a target just as the floor started to shake. She took a few deep breaths, focused, and fired. The arrow struck the edge of the target. The next two barely missed, and the fourth hit a little closer to the center. Satisfied, Shanali laid the bow down and took off running again, sprinting as quickly as she could across the room.

She was halfway across the room when the lights went out. To Tamika's surprise, she kept running at full speed, stopping a few feet short of the wall. It took Tamika a moment to put it together. When she'd been running earlier, she must have been counting her steps. It wouldn't be exact, but it would keep her from running into anything as long as her path was clear.

It was. She'd made sure of that. Shanali spent the remainder of her time sprinting back and forth across the room, stopping short of the wall each time. By the time the lights came back up, she was grinning. Tamika nodded, leaning back in her chair as Shanali left. Not bad.

* * *

 **15:07**

David was grinning as he entered the room. Tamika couldn't help but smile; so many of the past few tributes had entered the room all smiles despite having to wait for hours for their turn. Maybe they were putting on a show, trying to convince her and her fellow Gamemakers that it would be worth the wait. Maybe smiling was simply the only thing they could think of to keep from complaining about how unfair it was to make them wait until the end.

Either way, David took a little bow as he entered. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! This is the moment you've all been waiting for!"

It wasn't. Or, at least, it almost certainly wasn't. But Tamika smiled pleasantly, anyway. There was no harm in humoring the boy, at least for the moment. In fifteen minutes, they would see if he was still smiling.

David headed for the climbing station, where he immediately started scrambling up one of the makeshift trees. Higher and higher in the branches he climbed, quite quickly. Maybe he was trying to get as high as he could before the rain started.

Sure enough, just as he was reaching the highest branches, the rain began to fall. "Not a problem, Madam Gamemaker!" he called from the top branches. "I'm just going to go ahead and sliiiiide on down here." He reached for another branch and started climbing down. He'd made it about halfway before he slipped, losing his balance, and fell into the cushioning net below. He slid off the net with a grin, as if that was exactly what he'd planned to do. "Ta-da!" he announced as he headed for the shelter-building station.

"Ah, a shelter! Exactly what I'm going to need in this sort of weather!" he declared, choosing a few supplies from the pile. "Something to keep out the rain, the wind, and the occasional earthquake." He winked up at her, not even bothering to hide the fact that he'd been tipped off about what was coming. Finally.

Tamika leaned back in her chair as David started building his shelter. It wasn't much, and he certainly wouldn't have time to finish, but at least he wasn't wasting his time – or hers. At least he was doing _something_ , and doing it with a little bit of flair. He added a few colorful berries to the top of his shelter as the wind started to blow – probably just for fun.

At least, she assumed they were just for fun until he popped one in his mouth and explained. "See, it doubles as a bird feeder. And when I want dinner…" He chose a net from the fishing station and tossed it over the shelter, pretending to catch the birds that he was expecting to come and eat his berries. "Instant bird!"

Tamika couldn't help a chuckle. David grinned as the floor beneath him began to rock. "Probably not a great shelter if something like this happens – too easy for it to fall on your head. Better dash, instead." With that, he took off running, circling the room a few times before the lights went out.

Unlike Shanali, however, he hadn't figured out a way to gauge his strides in the dark, and quickly collided with one of the dummies. He slowed to a jog and proceeded to jog in a smaller circle until the lights came back on. Then he took a deep bow and left with the same grin he'd entered with.

* * *

 **15:24**

Orphelia shook her head as she entered. "Before I begin, I thought you should know that one of the other tributes told us what was going to happen."

Tamika leaned forward in her chair, feigning surprise. "Really? What did they say?"

"That after about three minutes, those sprinklers are going to go off." She pointed at the ceiling. "Then it's going to get windy, and then the floor is going to start shaking, and then the lights are going to go off." She shrugged. "I just thought someone should let you know that … well, it's not much of a surprise anymore."

Interesting. So both tributes from Twelve had decided not to try to hide that they knew what was coming. Orphelia, of course, was simply trying to gain some favor by tipping them off, but there was still something to be said for honesty, whatever the motivation. And that was a reputation District Twelve had earned since they'd refused to participate in the rebellion during the 41st Games.

Maybe Twelve wasn't rich. Maybe they weren't particularly zealous in their allegiance to the Capitol. But they were honest. They were hardworking. And they were loyal. Brennan instructed his tributes well, and his work was paying off.

Having said her piece, Orphelia headed for the fishing station and chose a large net, then dragged it back to the snare station. She filled the net with an assortment of heavier objects – a few rocks, a shield, and a head from one of the dummies. By the time the rain started, the net was full. Quickly, she tied the four corners together attached a rope.

She could have simply tossed the other end of the rope over one of the branches of the climbing tree she was under, but instead, she clambered up into the branches, holding the end of the rope in her hands. She looped it over a branch just as the wind started to blow. Then, instead of climbing down, she jumped, still holding the rope, her weight lifting the net on the other end of the rope like a pulley.

She quickly tied off the end of the rope and got to work setting up a tripwire. Maybe it wasn't anything fancy, but she clearly knew she didn't have time for anything fancy; the floor was already starting to shake by the time she finished. Just before the room went dark, she took one of the dummies lying nearby and tripped the wire. The net – and, more importantly, its contents – came crashing down on top of the dummy.

The room went dark. Orphelia reached for one of the items she had left by the trip wire – a small dagger – and went to work on the dummy, slicing here and there as if making sure it was dead after being caught in her trap. By the time the lights came back up, the dummy was completely destroyed. Orphelia got up, smiled up at the Gamemakers, and left.

* * *

 **16:00**

Tamika stretched her arms before sitting down at the table with a few of her most senior Gamemakers. Andromeda, her head arena technician. Boris, her head mutt specialist. And Puck, who was in charge of delving into the tributes' lives back in their districts for any interesting, pertinent information.

She had the final say in the tributes' scores, but it was important to keep the others in the loop, to teach them the finer points of the matter. She didn't plan on doing this forever, after all, and her eventual replacement would need to know what they were doing. And they would need to be surrounded with people who were experienced. People who had insights of their own, rather than just carrying out her orders.

"I like the kid who asked for a horse," Boris blurted out before any of the others could get a word in. "Maybe we should give them something next time – a little mutt or two during training. They don't really have any opportunity right now to show us how good they'd be with mutts."

Andromeda chuckled a little. "That's because they're as good with mutts as we _let_ them be. You know that better than anyone else."

Boris nodded. "To an extent, yes," he conceded. "It wasn't a mistake that the prairie dogs a few years ago were more docile than the tracker jackers the year before, after what happened during the bloodbath. But it's also true that some tributes have more of a … well, more of a _knack_ for dealing with mutts than others, even when the mutts themselves are designed to be more agreeable. Anyone could have attempted to tame those prairie dogs. Only Oliver _did_. That would have been a nice thing to know _beforehand_ rather than waiting until the Games to find out."

Tamika smiled. "Point made. Let's make a sampling of smaller mutts available during training. But only mutts from _previous_ Games, Boris. Don't offer to let them see what's coming."

"Sorry about that," Boris apologized. "I didn't mean to give anything away. I just got a bit excited."

"No harm done," Tamika assured him. "The only thing they know is that there _are_ mutts. If he's smart, he might put enough pieces together to guess that there would have been something large enough for him to ride. But that's it. Hardly a game changer. What about you, Puck?" She turned to the youngest of the three, who had been strangely silent. "Anything before we begin?"

A smile spread across Puck's face. "Glad you asked." They leaned back in their chair.

"I know who let the cat out of the bag."

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters."_


	28. Training Scores: Look Like the Time

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** And here's a more reasonable-sized chapter.

* * *

 **Training Scores  
** **Look Like the Time**

* * *

 **Malchus Fritz  
** **Hunger Games Host**

He wished he could show them more.

Malchus leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him as the numbers beside the camera counted down. This was it. The moment everyone in the Capitol had been waiting for all day. For several days, actually. No one outside of this building had seen the tributes since the parade.

Not that they would see the tributes now, of course. Not until the interviews. But this was the first taste, the first hint that the sponsors would get of who might be more promising and who might not fare so well once the pressure was on. It was only that, however: a taste. A hint. In the end, he was just giving them numbers right now; that was all. And numbers didn't tell the whole story.

Malchus shook the thought from his head. He would get a chance to tell the whole story – or at least more of it – later. Once he actually had the tributes onstage with him, he would be able to pry out more details. Or, at least, he hoped he would. This was his first year. His first chance to make an impression. He owed it to the audience to give them a show, and he wasn't going to let them down.

 _Three. Two. One._ A light indicated that he was live. All of Panem was watching. "Hello, _hello!"_ he called to the unseen audience. "Hello and welcome to what promises to be a _very_ interesting night. For the past three days, these tributes have been working harder than they ever thought they would, finding talents they never knew they had. Today, that training has paid off, and I have the pleasure of presenting the fruits of their effort."

Numbers. They were just numbers. But at the moment, they were all he had. All _any_ of them had to go on. For now, they would have to do.

For now, he would just have to make the most of it.

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

 _Mae Swenson, with a score of five._

 _Consus Caepio, with a score of four._

 _Genevieve Odele, with a score of five._

 _Justus Freeman, with a score of six._

It didn't look like he was kidding.

Consus stared at the screen, not quite believing it. He _wanted_ to believe it, yes. He wanted to believe that the Careers – his own district partners – weren't really going to be much of a threat this year. Occasionally, a particularly inept Career would score a seven, but a _six_ was unheard of. And a five was laughable.

None of his district partners were laughing. Justus was shaking his head and muttering quietly to himself. Whether he was upset with the Gamemakers for giving him such a low score or upset with himself for whatever he'd done during his session, Consus couldn't be sure. Genevieve's mouth hung open as she stared at the screen, completely baffled. Mae seemed to be taking her five in stride, but the audience would probably attribute her mediocre score to her age.

Justus and Genevieve didn't have that sort of excuse. Consus had been watching his district partners closely enough to know that the others were looking to Justus to lead the Career pack. Would a six be enough to make some of the others question his leadership? Maybe, especially if the _other_ Careers scored higher.

They would just have to wait and see.

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

 _Etora Nanovi, with a score of nine._

 _Darian Travers, with a score of eight._

 _Annemae Carty, with a score of ten._

 _Leonardo Choi, with a score of five._

 _Margo Devereaux, with a score of seven._

It was beginning to look like she'd made the wrong choice.

Etora shook her head as she stared at the screen. She had suggested to Justus at the start of training that the Careers should have some sort of test to see who would be able to handle being part of the pack. Maybe this was why Justus had refused. Maybe he'd known that neither of his district partners would make the cut. Not that his six was much better. Annemae and Margo, on the other hand…

She'd been expecting Darian's score – or, at least, near enough. He hadn't had as much training as her, but Career training was quite lacking this year. Even more so than she'd thought if none of the District One tributes had impressed the Gamemakers. But Annemae and Margo had kept to themselves during training. They hadn't approached the Career pack wanting to be part of it.

But why? Clearly, the Gamemakers thought they had what it took. Margo's seven was higher than any of District One's tributes, and Annemae had gotten a ten. A _ten_. Etora glanced over at Darian, who shrugged. Maybe she had been wrong to dismiss them. Etora fought back a sudden churning in her stomach.

Who else had she been wrong about?

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18  
** **District Three**

 _Merrik Haims, with a score of one._

 _Dinah Peralta, with a score of six._

He didn't look like he'd been expecting this.

Dinah glanced over at Merrik, who was shaking his head, alternating between staring at the screen and looking helplessly at Miriam, hoping for an explanation – an explanation she clearly didn't have. Dinah turned her attention back to the screen. Maybe he'd panicked like he had during the reaping. But if that was the case, he would have _expected_ a low score, wouldn't he?

It wasn't her problem, though. Not really. Right now, she had to focus on her own chances. Her own score was pretty high, especially considering how low some of the Careers had scored. Dinah felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Percival shaking his head. "Don't get too cocky now. Careers are Careers, and low scores just make them more desperate to prove themselves."

He was right, of course. She hadn't exactly been planning to attack the Career pack, though. Even if they weren't quite up to par, there were seven of them. She and Orphelia were only two tributes. Still, it was nice to know that the Gamemakers had seen something in her. A six was just about right – high enough to prove herself but not high enough to make her a target.

She just hoped things kept going this well.

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

 _Aleyn Tillens, with a score of three._

 _Arabel Ford, with a score of six._

 _Emmett Darsier, with a score of four._

 _Ronan Callaway, with a score of nine._

Things were starting to look a little more hopeful.

Ronan couldn't help a grin as Imalia gave him a high five. "Look at _that_ ," she beamed. "That's exactly what I got. They must have been impressed."

Ronan chuckled. "Well, you had some tougher competition. Real Careers, I mean. Still…" Still, a nine was pretty impressive. He had a right to be proud of that. He'd earned it. Beside him, Arabel was nodding, impressed. A six wasn't too shabby, though, especially for a younger tribute.

Aleyn, though, looked like she was trying not to cry. "I thought…" She trailed off, her voice breaking. "I just thought I did better than that."

Bierce wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Hey. Scores aren't everything, and everyone knows it. The girl who won last year? She got a three, too."

"She was _twelve_ ," Emmett scoffed. "Of course she got a three."

"Twelve-year-old got a nine this year," Ronan offered.

"A twelve-year-old from _Two_ ," Emmett countered. "A Career. What's your point."

What _was_ his point? Ronan wasn't sure. He'd just wanted Aleyn to feel better. "Point was, like Bierce said, scores aren't everything." But even he knew how empty that sounded. Maybe they weren't everything. But they were certainly something.

And he was pretty proud of his.

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

 _Retro Liu, with a score of three._

 _Vashti Rii, with a score of two._

 _Macauley Tierney, with a score of eight._

 _Elliot Stone, with a score of eight._

It looked like they knew what they were doing, after all.

Vashti leaned back in his chair as Macauley and Elliot exchanged high fives, trading a few with Sabine and Oliver, as well. Vashti had assumed the pair of them would be at the bottom of the Career pack, but the only one who had scored higher was the little girl from Two. Maybe the rest of the pack was just as inept as they were, after all.

Or maybe the Gamemakers were playing with them. It wasn't unheard of for the Gamemakers to inflate scores in the hopes of creating drama. But that was really only effective if they had some level of skill to begin with. Vashti glanced up at Harakuise, who shrugged. After what had happened during his session, a two wasn't much of a surprise. But what else could he have done?

After only a moment, however, the door opened, revealing Mariska, with her mentor Lander behind her. _Shit._ At least she had the sense not to say anything in front of the others. Lander motioned to Harakuise, who nodded and gestured to Vashti to follow them into the other room. Once the door was closed, Mariska turned to Vashti.

"Okay. What aren't you telling me?"

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

 _Lena Khatri, with a score of one._

 _Charu Varma, with a score of five._

It looked like the Gamemakers had figured it out.

Charu glanced over at Duke and Nicodemus, who were trying to work out what had gone wrong. By the way Lena's face was turning pale, she'd already figured it out. "They know."

Duke raised an eyebrow. "Know what?"

"When Merrik got a one, I figured it might be a fluke, you know? He said he panicked a bit. But _both_ of us … It has to mean they know."

"Know _what_?" Duke pressed.

Lena simply stared at the screen, frozen. So Charu answered. "When Merrik came out of his session, I saw him whisper something to Lena. Didn't think anything of it at the time, figured maybe he was giving her a little last-minute encouragement. But then when Lena came out, she … she told us what was coming, with the rain and the wind and all."

Duke's face was growing red. "What? You did _what_?"

"I didn't think it was fair." Lena's voice was barely a whisper. "What they were doing … It wasn't fair. It wasn't right."

"Right?" Duke demanded. "Of course it isn't _right_. None of this is _right_. But do you have any idea what you've done? If they think you're trying to cause trouble—"

"I wasn't!"

"That doesn't _matter_! The only thing that matters is whether you _look_ like you're trying to cause trouble. And believe me, that's exactly what it looks like."

"Duke." Nicodemus' voice was quiet as he lay a hand on the younger man's arm. "Calm down. What's done is done, and screaming about it isn't going to help."

"I wasn't—"

"I know you're scared. It's okay."

Duke immediately fell silent. He opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. So Nicodemus continued. "Lena, come with me. We need to talk to Merrik and Miriam, figure out how we're going to spin this."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know." He squeezed her hand gently in his crooked fingers. "Believe me, I know. But right now, we need to stop this from getting worse." He wheeled himself out of the room, and Lena followed.

Duke turned to Charu. "Great. Just great. You were always our best shot, Charu, but now you're our only shot."

Charu felt a knot forming in her stomach. Lena hadn't meant to hurt anyone. She wasn't trying to start a rebellion. She'd just made a mistake. They wouldn't really target her because of one little mistake.

Would they?

* * *

 **Thomas Elliot, 18  
** **District Seven**

 _Nephelle Sorena, with a score of six._

 _Thomas Elliot, with a score of four._

They certainly wouldn't look like much of a threat now.

Thomas glanced over at Nephelle, who nodded. It had been her idea – purposely holding back during his training session. And from the look of it, they'd made the right choice. There were three of them – him, Nephelle, and Aven. Three older, stronger tributes. If they scored too high, the three of them might make a tempting target for the Careers.

Now … not so much. Sure, they might not look like much to sponsors, either, but sponsors would take notice if they lasted long enough. Right now, it was more important _not_ to draw attention to themselves. And from the look of things, the Careers would have their hands full trying to prove themselves to the audience.

Or, at least, the Careers from District _One_ would. District Two was looking pretty good, and the older tributes from Five had both gotten eights. Even one of the boys from Four had gotten a nine.

Thomas leaned back on the sofa. He couldn't help wondering how he would have scored if he hadn't been holding back. Probably not as high as the higher Careers, certainly, but maybe a seven or so? Maybe it was better that way – just being able to imagine that he would have done well, pretend that he could have scored just as high as any of them.

Now there was no way to know for sure.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

 _Mariska Vasile, with a score of seven._

 _Klaudia Almasy, with a score of two._

They must look like quite the pair.

Mariska shook her head as her score flashed on the screen, her seven a stark contrast to her ally's two. But now she knew why. Mariska crossed her arms as Vashti finished explaining. A blood disorder. Maybe she should have seen that one coming. She wanted to scream. To demand to know why he hadn't told her sooner. Why he'd been keeping this a secret when the first thing he'd insisted was important in the Games was honesty.

Except she already knew why, even if he wouldn't admit it. He hadn't wanted to look weak. He'd wanted her to believe that he would be a useful ally, that he had something to contribute. And he certainly _did_ , but this … this changed everything.

Didn't it?

Mariska hesitated a moment before responding. "You have to tell the audience."

"What?" Vashti asked flatly.

"The audience. During the interviews. Do you really think they aren't going to bring it up? The audience _has_ to be wondering what a sixteen-year-old could have done to end up with a two."

"Your district partner got a two."

"My district partner fainted at the reaping. If they know _why_ you scored so low, the sponsors will understand, and maybe they'll be able to do something once the Games start."

Vashti scoffed. "Like what? Pool their resources and find a cure for hemophilia?"

Mariska rolled her eyes. "I _meant_ maybe they could send you some armor or something. But if you want to aim high…"

"What makes you think we'll get sponsors in the first place?"

"Maybe I'm just an optimist," Mariska teased.

Vashti actually burst out laughing. "Bullshit. If I tell the audience, I tell the other tributes. If they know—"

Mariska cut him off. "Don't you get it yet? It's not a question of if they find out. Just a question of who they're going to find out from. Are they going to find out from the host at the interviews, or are they going to hear it from you?" She shook her head.

"It's up to you."

* * *

 **Aven Faraday, 16  
** **District Nine**

 _Barlen Rimmonn, with a score of two._

 _Triticum Bulgur, with a score of five._

 _Aven Faraday, with a score of six._

It looked like Nephelle's idea had worked.

Aven nodded as Crispin clapped her on the back. Just right. A six was just about right, and their pair of sixes would be enough to balance out Thomas' four in the audience's eyes. But all the other tributes would care about was the four. Thomas was the oldest and strongest in their alliance. But an eighteen-year-old who scored a four … well, that was nothing to worry about.

Ti seemed content with his score, as well. Barlen, on the other hand, was well past content and was beaming up at Basil. "Second! Not bad for a thirteen year old kid!"

A thirteen year old kid who had run screaming out of his session after only a few minutes. But he probably didn't even remember doing that. Aven shook her head, not even looking at her district partner. If he couldn't even remember how the scoring system worked…

Not her problem. She'd been telling herself that ever since her district partners had turned out to be a pair of younger boys. Ti seemed to be doing pretty well for himself, but one of his allies had already scored a three, and the other didn't seem particularly competent. But none of that – _none_ of it – was her problem. If she wanted to survive, she couldn't waste time worrying about her younger district partners.

No matter how sorry she felt for them.

* * *

 **Connor Sawyer, 15  
** **District Ten**

 _Connor Sawyer, with a score of five._

 _Skyton Tate, with a score of seven._

It looked like Skyton might actually know what he was doing.

Connor shook his head, still staring at the screen. Maybe a seven wasn't terribly impressive, but it certainly wasn't what he'd expected from someone who had spent the entire three days training at various survival stations. Skyton hadn't so much as laid a hand on a weapon, and he'd earned the highest score in their alliance. Connor clapped his district partner on the back. "Not bad."

Skyton smiled. "You, too. Looks like our alliance is doing pretty well. I got a seven, Arabel got a six, you got a five."

 _Klaudia got a two._ He wanted to say it, but he didn't. Skyton hadn't picked Klaudia because he thought she would be an incredible fighter. Connor just hoped the survival skills she and Skyton had picked up would be enough to make up for what they lacked in brute strength.

Connor finally managed a smile. It would be enough. It had to. There were four of them; that made them the largest alliance aside from the Career pack. Well, _tied_ for the next-largest alliance. That had to count for something.

Maybe it would be enough to give them an edge.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

 _Wes Bartoshesky, with a score of three._

 _Kilian Romane, with a score of seven._

 _Shanali Theisen, with a score of eight._

It certainly looked like their alliance was one of the stronger ones.

Shanali avoided Wes' gaze as she gave Kilian a high five. "Look at _that_! Seven, eight, and Ronan got a nine. Looking good, Kilian!"

"Feeling good, Shanali," Kilian beamed.

"Don't get cocky, you two," Tamsin interrupted. "Those scores will get you noticed by sponsors, but they could also make you a target for the Careers."

"The Careers we just _outscored_ ," Shanali chuckled. "All of them from One, at least. And I _tied_ three of the others."

"That's what the Gamemakers are counting on," Elijah pointed out. "They _want_ you to believe they're on par with the Careers. Believe me, you're not. You're good, but they've had years of training. You're not prepared to take them on right away."

"Were you?" Shanali countered.

"No," Elijah answered immediately. "Which was why I decided to leave them. Trying to join them was a mistake. Trying to confront them immediately would also have been a mistake. Don't make that mistake."

"So you're saying we should run?" Kilian asked.

"I'm saying you should be smart," Elijah corrected. "With scores like that, the audience will be expecting you to accomplish something during the bloodbath. The Careers will be expecting you to try. Just don't aim too high right away. Don't bite off more than you can chew." He shook his head.

"It might come back to bite you later."

* * *

 **David Abadi, 14  
** **District Twelve**

 _David Abadi, with a score of seven._

 _Orphelia Mykonos, with a score of six._

It looked like their gambling had paid off.

David beamed up at Brennan as the last of the scores faded from the screen. "I guess we made the right choice, after all."

"There are no right choices," Brennan answered softly.

Orphelia looked up, confused, from the plate of cookies she'd been finishing. "What do you mean? We were both honest about knowing about their plan ahead of time. We both got pretty good scores. I don't see the problem."

"I'm sure you don't," Brennan agreed. "Here's the thing. You never told me which tributes told you something was coming, but from the scores I just saw, I bet I can guess. They didn't get zeroes, but that could just be up to the individual Gamemaker."

"Wait," David interrupted. "You're saying that's our fault?"

Kyra shook her head. "Not entirely. The Gamemakers probably already knew something was going on – or at least suspected."

"Your actions didn't _cause_ what happened, but they contributed to it," Brennan explained. "And that's something you'll have to live with. Was it the best choice for you? Almost certainly. But was it the _right_ choice?" He shook his head. "Things usually aren't that simple. There's always a price." He laid his good hand on David's shoulder.

"It's up to you to decide whether the price is worth paying."

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time."_


	29. Interviews: Welcome

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games

 **Note:** My apologies for the long wait. Now that NaNoWriMo's starting, hopefully I'll be able to get back into the swing of updating this regularly. Just a few more chapters before the Games...

* * *

 **Interviews  
** **Welcome**

* * *

 **Puck Lancaster, 28  
** **Gamemaker, Tribute Specialist**

"And you're sure about all of this."

Puck chuckled a little as Malchus flipped through the document they'd handed him. "I know you're new to this, but trust me. My team and I have been doing this for years now." After the fiasco that had been the 41st Games, Tamika had decided that what the Gamemaking team needed was more insight into the tributes before the Games. So immediately after the reapings, Puck and their team went to work digging into the tributes' histories.

They'd gotten pretty good at it. Each of the tributes had an extensive file. Most of it was meaningless. Everything from family trees going back generations to last week's geometry test. But every so often among the rubble, they found a gem. Those were listed at the start of each file, and, of course, Puck _could_ have simply given Malchus a list of the most relevant information. But they took pride in the work they and their team had done, and it was nice to be able to hand over a complete record to show how much work they'd put in.

Malchus shook his head, flipping through the report. "Wow. With all this, it's a wonder they didn't consider you for my job."

Puck chuckled. "Not my area." They'd always enjoyed working behind the scenes. "Have fun out there."

"You're sure you don't want me to give you a mention?"

"Better to keep it quiet," Puck reasoned. "The second the districts know we're doing this, our job becomes harder. Right now, they don't know we're collecting this information. Even if they suspect it, they don't know _how_ we're doing it. It's better that way; it makes them less likely to try to hide anything." They clapped Malchus on the shoulder. "Looks like you've got some reading to do before the show. Better get to it." They smiled.

"You're on in two hours."

* * *

 **Langston Carnelian, 17  
** **Friend of Justus Freeman**

"Welcome, welcome, _welcome_ to tonight's main event!"

Langston settled into his chair as the voice of the Hunger Games' new host, Malchus Fritz, echoed through the room. So far, Malchus had proven to be everything that was expected of a host – vibrant, energetic, and optimistic about even the most hopeless of tributes. That was the job, of course. He was there to try and make everyone look good. To give everyone a few moments in the spotlight before they started to fade into the blood and chaos at the start of the Games.

Langston stole a glance at his younger sisters, already seated near his parents on their couch. Their aunt had also joined them, sitting in a rocking chair nearby, silent. It was an odd silence, a silence that seemed to have come over the whole district when the training scores had been announced earlier that day. This wasn't what they were used to. Even Justus, who had always been near the top of his class at the academy, had only scored a six.

Maybe that was part of the plan. Justus always seemed to have a plan. It was deliberate; it had to be. But what could he possibly hope to gain by scoring so low?

Langston shook his head. He would just have to hope that his friend had a plan. In the meantime, he would just have to sit back and enjoy the show. Just like normal.

It was different this year, though. He'd known a few of the tributes from previous years, of course, but none as closely as he knew Justus. And for years in District One, the tributes had known exactly what they were getting into. It had been years – decades – since a tribute from District One had gone into the Games unprepared.

Unprepared was exactly the word that came to mind when their first tribute, Mae, took the stage. The audience cheered, more out of habit than anything else, as she entered, wearing a white blouse with a black ascot, a black skirt, and a white belt. Her hair was pulled back, but she kept fiddling with it, trying to get it just right, as she took a seat across from Malchus.

Malchus ignored the fidgeting, grinning as the audience's clapping subsided. "Welcome, Mae. What do you think of the Capitol so far?"

"It'd be a lot nicer if there wasn't a chance I was going to die tomorrow," Mae answered matter-of-factly, earning a few laughs from the audience. Mae looked around, confused, as if she was unsure why the audience was laughing. "It … it wasn't a joke."

"Of course not, my dear," Malchus agreed. "We know you Careers take the Games _very_ seriously."

"I'm not a Career," Mae replied flatly, earning another round of chuckles.

"Maybe you're not as _experienced_ as some of the other Careers," Malchus conceded. "But I hear you're a member of this year's pack, if we may call it that."

"You may."

"Pardon?"

"You may call it that." Mae glanced around, confused, as the audience barely contained its giggling. Langston leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. If Justus had let _her_ into the pack, he must have been really desperate. Which of the other Career-district tributes were in the so-called Career pack? How many of them really deserved to be there?

It was obvious as he walked onstage, trading glances with Mae, that Consus hadn't even bothered pretending to be part of the pack. He was smiling a little – more than Mae had been, at least – but as soon as he sank into the chair across from Malchus, the smile faded. Maybe everything was really sinking in now. Or maybe he just didn't like crowds. Consus shifted a little in his chair, trying – and apparently failing – to find a comfortable position.

"Welcome, Consus." Malchus continued to ignore the fidgeting. "I hear you will _not_ be joining the Career pack this year."

"You heard right," Consus agreed, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. "I guess they weren't quite desperate enough to consider taking me. Although it seems a couple people with _fives_ got in, so a four might have been right on the cusp of their requirements."

Malchus chuckled, and Langston glanced at the information that was appearing on the side of the screen – all the tributes who had scored fives, in case the audience at home wanted to take a guess at who he was talking about. Mae, obviously, but he had said a _couple._ So at least one of the others…

Fives. That was Genevieve, Leo, Charu, Triticum, and Connor. Genevieve seemed like the most obvious choice, but was the Career pack really going to include three of the tributes from One when they had scored so low? That could be enough to give them a majority in the pack, depending on how many members they'd managed to accumulate. Consus had said they were desperate. How much of that was true, of course, and how much of that was him bluffing, they had no way to know.

Langston turned his attention back to the screen, where Malchus was asking Consus about his family. "Of course, my dad wishes Lorinda was the one up here instead of me." He chuckled a little. "I guess we all do. I'm sure she'd be much more entertaining."

"Was she hoping to volunteer this year?" Malchus asked, his tone giving away that he already knew the answer.

"Probably not this year. She's seventeen, so she's still got a year left."

"Ah, so she still has a chance next year."

Consus shrugged. "Well, District One hasn't had back-to-back Victors yet. Maybe this year."

Langston couldn't help a smile. In almost fifty years now, back-to-back victories was a feat only two districts had achieved – and not the ones anyone would have expected when the Games had begun. Tobiah and Crispin had won consecutive years for District Nine back during the 18th and 19th Games. Then, more recently, Adalyn and Oliver from District Five had won the 44th and 45th. Not exactly the most likely occurrence to hope for.

Langston pushed the thought from his head. Right now, he didn't care about whether District One won next year's Games. This year would be good enough for him. His friend coming home alive would be good enough.

Genevieve was next to take the stage, wearing a white pantsuit studded with small gems. An interesting choice, but none of the gems seemed to shine as brightly as her smile. Malchus seemed to relax a little as he realized he was finally going to get someone who _acted_ like a proper Career, even if she wasn't. "Welcome, Genevieve," he beamed as she took a seat across from him. "I hear you're quite the Games aficionado."

"I suppose you could say that," Genevieve shrugged, feigning modesty. "Most of us in District One are."

"To some extent, sure," Malchus agreed. "I suppose it's easier to be a fan of the Games in a district that has a history of winning."

Langston raised an eyebrow. Where was he going with that? But Genevieve didn't miss a beat. "That we do! In fact, the first Games I remember is Jasper's. That Neverland arena was one of the best, in my opinion. And that _finale_! How often do the Games come down to a battle between _three_ Careers?"

"Not as often as you'd think, considering your training," Malchus reasoned. "Tell me, what do you think it is that keeps Careers from winning … well, more often?"

Genevieve hesitated a moment, caught off-guard. "Pardon?"

"Well, with the level of training the Careers have, you'd think they would win every Games. Or almost every Games. But from the start of Career training, there have been … what? Eighteen Career Victors?"

"Nineteen," Genevieve corrected automatically. "Jade, Stellar, Felix, Scarlet, Amelia, Jasper, Mortimer, Ariadne, Balthasar, Harriet, Tosh, Naomi, Misha, Kalypso, Bierce, Imalia, Camden, Adalyn, and Oliver."

"I stand corrected," Malchus conceded. "But nineteen out of forty nine is less than a majority, even. What do you feel is holding you back?"

He was fishing for something. But what? Genevieve thought for a moment before answering. "I think sometimes Careers forget how important the audience is. They take supplies and weapons at the cornucopia for granted, so they don't need to be as … appealing as some of the outer-district tributes in order to earn sponsor gifts. Until they do. Until suddenly their supplies, their weapons, their allies are all gone, and the audience is already rooting for someone else. So if there's one thing I'd say is important for Careers, it's making an impression early, giving the audience a reason to support them."

"And you intend to do that?" Malchus' smile was enough to tell that was _exactly_ the answer he'd been looking for.

Genevieve nodded. "Absolutely."

She gave Justus a wink as they traded places. Justus grinned back, then practically sprinted onstage and slid into a seat across from Malchus. "Welcome, Justus," Malchus chuckled a little. "Someone looks eager for things to get started."

Justus made a show of looking around innocently. "Who? Me?" That earned a few laughs from the audience, who were happy to see another Career _acting_ like a Career, despite his relatively low training score.

"So, Justus, what do you say we dive right in and tackle the elephant in the room? You've become something of a leader in this year's Career pack. Is that fair to say?"

"I'd like to think so."

"Are you worried that your rather … mediocre training score might jeopardize that position?"

Justus didn't miss a beat; Felix had obviously prepared him for that one. "Not at all, Malchus. See, leading a Career pack is a difficult task in a normal year, but this year is something different entirely. Obviously, a leader needs to be competent, but they also need to be able to _lead_ , and that's something that can't be measured in a private session where you're the only one demonstrating your skills. I think the rest of the pack recognizes that I'm the best choice."

"Let's talk about that for a moment – the rest of the pack. Two of your district partners – Mae and Genevieve, who we just saw. Two of the tributes from Two – Etora and Darian. And two from Five – Macauley and Elliot, I believe." He knew. Of course he knew. So why was he asking?

"That's right. It's a slightly larger pack than normal, but this isn't exactly a normal year."

"Is there a reason you didn't consider making it a big larger?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, two of the other tributes from Two scored rather high. Is there a reason you didn't invite them into the pack?"

"They weren't interested."

"Ah, I _see_. Are you sure you didn't just want your district to hold a majority in the pack?"

"Three out of seven isn't a majority." Justus was grasping at straws.

"A plurality, then." Malchus shrugged off the technicality. "If you had four tributes from another district, that might disrupt the balance of the Career pack – and, if I may be so bold, not in your favor."

"That has nothing to do with it," Justus answered flatly.

But not very convincingly.

* * *

 **Trisha Lang, 14  
** **Friend of Darian Travers**

Darian was part of the Career pack.

Trisha was still letting the words sink in as Justus left the stage. Maybe she should have expected that when she'd seen his training score, but it still felt strange. Darian had never really shown any interest at all in training – not until a few weeks before…

Before it had all gone wrong. Before Voss had finally crossed a line. Before Darian had challenged him to a fight. Trisha wrung her hands as Etora took the stage. She'd never imagined that he would be capable of actually killing someone. In District Two, of course, it was practically seen as a badge of honor for someone to have blood on their hands. But she had never pictured Darian wearing that badge.

It had been one thing with Voss. But the Games … most of these tributes had never done anything to him. To _anyone._ This was different. She was used to seeing people kill in the Games, of course. But never anyone she had known. Never anyone who was her friend.

Trisha shook herself from her thoughts as Etora took the stage with a confident smile, wearing a sleek red calf-length dress adorned with gold, a gold bracelet, diamond stud earrings, and black flats. Seeing her now, it wasn't really a surprise that Malchus had named her as a member of the pack. Aside from her age, she was everything District Two had come to expect from a Career. The knowing smile, the confident swagger, the hungry look in her eyes. She wanted this. Maybe she hadn't wanted it quite this soon, but she wasn't about to let anyone write her off just because of her age.

"Welcome, Etora," Malchus began. "How are you feeling tonight? Prepared?"

"Very prepared, Malchus," Etora agreed. "I've been training for this for years."

"Not as many years as some of the others," Malchus pointed out.

Etora didn't miss a beat. "Quality over quantity, Malchus. I've always been at the top of my class. It would only have been a matter of time before I was picked, anyway. How many of the others can say that?"

"Not many, I would imagine," Malchus conceded. "And your training score would seem to speak for itself. A nine is pretty impressive for _any_ Career, let alone such a young one."

"Thank you, Malchus, but once we're in the Games, I believe my actions will speak even louder than my training score."

"And what about your allies? A few of their scores were a bit … unimpressive."

Etora shrugged. "They'll have a chance to prove themselves tomorrow. Those who aren't really up to the task … well, we'll find out soon enough, won't we."

 _Up to the task._ Trisha shook her head as the girl continued, hoping that Darian would be one of the ones who was up to the task. His training score had been pretty good, but she couldn't imagine him being as gung-ho about killing as Etora was.

Soon, her time was up, and Darian took the stage, wearing a red suit with gold trim, black pants, and shiny black shoes. The red and gold matched Etora's dress, almost as if their stylists were trying to give the impression that they were a pair. And, in a way, maybe they were. They were two of the youngest members of the Career pack, both with high training scores, both from District Two.

But Etora had been training for years, and Darian … well, he hadn't. If they were trying to hold him to the same standards, he would fail. He wasn't ready. _Couldn't_ be ready. But now he had no choice but to pretend to be and hope for the best.

Malchus smiled as Darian slid into a seat across from him. "Welcome, Darain. It seems there are a lot of rumors going around about you. Perhaps you can clear a few things up for us."

Darian leaned back in his chair, trying to give the appearance of nonchalance. "What is it you've heard?"

"That you had a bit of a … fight with another boy back in your district. A fight that didn't end well."

"For him."

"Didn't end well for _him_ , then," Malchus corrected. "Is that a yes?"

Darian crossed his arms. "I believe the official report states that he was attacked by a wild animal while he was out collecting water."

Malchus leaned forward. "Yes, I believe the _official_ report does say that."

Darian shrugged. "Why would the Peacekeepers lie? They certainly wouldn't lie for _me_. Even if you were to suggest that they were bribed, what would I have to bribe them with? I'm not a businessman. Not a politician. I'm just a kid." He smirked. "Right?"

"So it would seem."

"And animal attacks aren't unheard of. In fact, you'd be surprised what even the tamest of animals is capable of if it's backed into a corner. If it's … provoked."

Malchus nodded. "I see. I would say that's a fairly common occurrence in the Games, as well."

"Animal attacks?"

"Being provoked. Or backed into a corner. When it comes down to it, the tamest animals can offer the biggest surprises. Isn't the same true for tributes?"

"Of course. After all, we're all animals underneath, aren't we?"

And there it was. The truth buried in the half-lie. Maybe an animal _had_ killed Voss, after all – or, at least, that was what the audience was meant to think. An animal that had been provoked. An animal named Darian.

Trisha could feel her stomach churning. That wasn't who her friend was. That wasn't who she wanted him to be. But it was who he would _have_ to be if he wanted to survive the Games. Or, at least, it was who he would have to _pretend_ to be.

She just hoped that, once he won, he would be able to stop pretending.

* * *

 **Amber Devereaux, 18  
** **Sister of Margo Devereaux**

It should have been her instead.

Amber ran her fingers through her hair as she waited. Waited for the moment that should have been hers. Margo had never wanted to be in the Games, but here she was – and doing quite well, at that. A seven wasn't bad for someone who had never spent a day training in their life. It was a pitiful score for a Career, of course, but Margo wasn't a Career. And from the sound of it, she hadn't made the mistake of trying to join the Career pack.

That was probably for the best, Amber reasoned as the next girl, Annemae, took the stage, wearing a floor-length dark blue dress and black flats. Amber had never seen her at the academy, but she'd somehow managed to score a ten. _Definitely_ someone to watch out for, even if it could have been something of a fluke. After all, _someone_ had to score high, and real Careers were in short supply this year.

Malchus was grinning as Annemae took a seat across from him. "Welcome, Annemae."

"Just Mae is fine, actually, if you don't mind."

Malchus nodded. "Of course, Mae. I think our audience can manage to keep track of two of you."

Mae wiped her brow dramatically. "Well, _that's_ a relief. My mentor seemed to think it would be a bit confusing."

"Maybe if you were both part of the Career pack," Malchus reasoned. "Is that why they decided not to invite you to join them? Because it might be confusing to have two of you?"

Mae chuckled. "Maybe that's it. I haven't been able to think of another reason."

"Well, it certainly wasn't because of your training score."

Mae grinned. "I guess not. I suspect if they'd known my score would be that high, things might have gone a bit differently during training. But what's done is done, I suppose, and I think I've got myself a good ally."

Malchus leaned forward a little. "Ah. Care to tell us who that might be?"

He knew. Of course he knew. The Gamemakers were watching the tributes during training, and they couldn't possibly have neglected to pass it along to him. He was just priming the crowd, and Mae knew it, too. She leaned forward dramatically. "Why, my district partner, of course. _Some_ of us have a sense of district loyalty. I think Margo and I make a good team."

Amber nearly burst out laughing. It was all an act. It had to be. There was no way someone who was actually Career caliber would have picked Margo as an ally. A seven was nothing terrible, of course, for someone who hadn't trained, but it certainly wasn't a ten. And whatever Mae had done to earn a ten, it hadn't been because of her skill. It couldn't have been. There was no way Margo would be able to fool someone who actually knew what they were doing.

Would she?

Amber was still laughing as Mae left the stage and Leo took her place, wearing a full dark grey suit and tie. Just a shade or two darker, and he would have been right at home at a funeral. Probably his own, if his performance at the reaping was anything to go by. Then again, he'd somehow managed to scrape out a five as a training score, so he must have done _something_ right.

"Welcome, Leonardo," Malchus beamed as Leo took a seat. "Or do you prefer Leo?"

"Just Leo is fine," he answered quietly. "I've always thought 'Leonardo' was a bit too … showy."

Malchus chuckled. "Well, we can't have any of _that_ , can we." The audience gave a few laughs. "Leo it is. I hear you've got quite the interesting job back in your district, Leo."

Leo nodded. "I'm a nurse."

"A nurse?" Malchus feigned surprise. "I didn't know they _had_ those in District Two."

Leo smiled. "They have nurses everywhere."

"Well, I suppose someone has to patch up the brave young trainees who get injured at the academy. Any experience with that?"

"Not particularly," Leo admitted. "The academy has its own medical team. I work mostly with people who didn't _mean_ to put themselves in harm's way. Not all of us have a craving for excitement and blood, you know."

Malchus chuckled. "Actually, I suspect there are some people who _didn't_ know that about District Two, considering the sample that most of us see in the Games every year. I guess we're all used to seeing tributes from Two who are a bit more … enthusiastic about the Games."

Leo shrugged. "I suppose so. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend to be excited about killing. Not when all I want to do is help people."

Malchus leaned back in his chair. "Not much call for that in the arena."

"You'd be surprised. There's always _someone_ who needs help."

Malchus nodded. "I see. And I take it you've found someone to help."

Leo shrugged. "I'd like to think the two of us will be helping each other."

"And who's the lucky tribute, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Why would I mind?"

Malchus leaned forward a little. "Well, some tributes like to keep their alliances a secret. Build suspense and all that. But you don't strike me as the sort."

Leo chuckled. "Afraid not. It's not exactly a secret. Barlen, from District Nine."

Amber couldn't help a chuckle. She remembered Barlen from the reapings. He hadn't even made it to the stage on his own. Of course he would need help in the arena, but what could he have to offer in return? Maybe a laugh. The two of them were probably perfect for each other, but not much of a threat.

Amber relaxed a little as Leo left the stage. At least there were some tributes in the arena who wouldn't pose much of a threat to the others. Some tributes who would be easy pickings when the time came. But why couldn't they all be like that?

They had been, of course, before Career training had begun. The Games had been a bit more of a free-for-all then, victory up for grabs for tributes from any district as long as they had the guts to do what had to be done. Career training had been a smart move, yes, but it also meant that tributes were held to a higher standard now – even those who would have no way to measure up, those who would never really have a chance now.

Finally, it was Margo's turn. Amber's eyes didn't leave the screen as her sister took the stage, smiling as she took a seat beside Malchus. She wore a short, dark red dress with a low neckline, black high heels, and red earrings in the shape of drops of blood. The stylists were certainly trying to tick all the usual Career boxes at once. Attractive, confident, and deadly. Margo wore a smile to match – a smile that might have convinced anyone but her own sister that she was completely prepared for what was coming.

But Amber knew better. Even for proper Careers, there was no such thing as 'completely prepared.' _She_ wasn't completely prepared – could never have been completely prepared – for the Games. There were always surprises. Unexpected twists and turns. She just hoped Margo would have the sense not to buy into her own act.

The audience certainly seemed to be buying it. There were cheers and even a few whistles of approval as Margo gave them a wave. Amber could feel her face growing red. That should have been _her_. Could have been her, if it wasn't for the stupid Quell twist.

"So, Margo, I hear you've found yourself quite an ally," Malchus observed.

Margo was still smiling, but Amber could see a bit of a strain. Her ally had scored higher than her, which was reassuring, but it also meant that she could be seen as the less competent of the pair. The one who needed to prove herself in order to keep the alliance stable. Amber could only hope her sister wouldn't do anything rash.

"I think we both have," Margo answered coolly, and Amber relaxed a little. "I'm just glad we snatched each other up before the other Careers did."

"So you think you would have made good members of the pack?"

Amber crossed her arms. What was Malchus getting at? He'd been playing that angle for two districts so far, dropping hints that Margo and Mae should have been included. Was he trying to expand the pack himself? Or was he hoping that the two of them would _try_ to join, and that the tension would tear the pack apart? But why would he by trying to break apart the pack this soon? The Games hadn't even started yet.

Margo, however, seemed unfazed – almost bored, as if she had expected that sort of question. Maybe she had. "I suppose we'll find out tomorrow, won't we." She leaned back in her chair. "Until then, there's not much point in speculating about who _would have_ made a good member of the pack. Tomorrow's when the real fun begins," she finished with a wink at the audience.

Amber nodded, stealing a glance at their mother. They both had to admit, Margo was good at this. The audience was happy to see what they assumed was a competent, trained Career. Amber just hoped Margo would be able to keep up the act once they were actually in the Games. Bluster was no substitute for preparation, of course, but it might scare away some of the other tributes, and it might win her sponsors.

And in the end, that could make all the difference.

* * *

 **Morana Haims, 31  
** **Mother of Merrik Haims**

She couldn't imagine what he could have done.

Morana took a few deep breaths, struggling to calm herself. At least she wouldn't have to wait long to see him. She couldn't help feeling sorry for the mothers of tributes in the later districts. Ten, Eleven, Twelve. They would have to wait hours to see their children for only a few brief moments, and by then the audience would be restless and tired and ready to go home. At least Merrik had a chance of making an impression.

Still, she couldn't help wondering whether he'd already made the wrong sort of impression. What could he possibly have done to earn a one in training? Even in the outer districts, a score _that_ low was almost unheard of, and almost always meant that a tribute was being singled out by the Gamemakers either as a hopeless weakling or as a target. But she couldn't imagine what Merrik might have done to make them think he was either of those. He had always been a good boy, always trying to help out. Sometimes trying a little too hard, perhaps, but there were worse problems to have.

She'd certainly been grateful for the help, once he'd been old enough to really lend a hand. Old enough that she didn't have to lock him away while she was at work for fear that he might accidentally hurt himself. Maybe it hadn't been fair, but she'd been a young mother herself. She hadn't had the money to hire someone to watch him, and she'd needed to work. Besides, he'd turned out all right in the end.

Hadn't he?

This wasn't her fault. That was what she kept trying to tell herself. But she couldn't shake the feeling that if she'd only worked a little harder, if she'd done a little more, if she'd made a little more for them, then Merrik wouldn't have had to take as much tesserae. Maybe that would have made the difference. Maybe he would have been safe.

Maybe. But that was all she had. She would never know for sure whether one or two fewer slips would have made a difference. And, in a way, that was worse than knowing. Morana shook her head as Merrik took the stage, wearing a simple black and white suit and a slim black tie. He looked terrified, but whether that was specifically because of his low training score or simply because he was about to be thrown into the arena in the morning, she didn't know.

Maybe she would never know.

Malchus didn't waste any time. "So, Merrik, I hear there's something you'd like to tell us."

Merrik froze. Either he had no idea what Malchus was talking about, or he hadn't expected him to get right to the point. After a moment, though, he nodded. "There is."

Malchus nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead."

"I wanted to explain to the audience why … why I got such a low training score. And to ask for … well, for forgiveness. My ally Lena and I – we broke the rules during training. I didn't mean for things to get so out of hand, but they did. I should have stopped her, but … I didn't. I went along with it. And I'm sorry."

"So it wasn't your idea," Malchus prompted. "It was hers?"

Merrik nodded emphatically. "I should have done something, but … well, you know how District Six is."

Morana fought back a churning in the pit of her stomach. What was it that he and his ally had done? What could have been bad enough to earn such a low score from the Gamemakers? Bad enough for Merrik to turn on his ally and blame the whole thing on her? That was so unlike him – blaming someone else for … well, anything, really.

Malchus, however, seemed content with how the situation was playing out. "Can we assume, then, that you and your ally will be parting ways?"

"Absolutely," Merrik answered. "I called off the alliance as soon as I realized what she had done. I can only hope to be forgiven for my part in all of this." He shook his head. "I'm ready to play the Games – and to play them well. You can count on that." He turned his gaze to the cameras. "For everyone's sake."

Morana froze. For _her_ sake. That was what he meant. Whatever it was he had done, she had no doubt that what he had said tonight was meant to protect _her_. President Grisom might not have his predecessor's penchant for exacting revenge on wrongdoers' families, but there was a first time for everything. Whatever happened in the Games, Merrik was trying to protect her. He was still thinking of her.

Morana wiped away a few tears as Merrik left the stage. That wasn't how things were supposed to be. She was supposed to protect _him_ , not the other way around. She was the parent. He was the child. But he had always wanted to help others. He'd always wanted to help _her_. If he didn't come back…

Morana pushed the thought from her mind as Merrik's district partner, Dinah, took the stage, wearing a long grey ball gown and black high heels. She didn't bother waiting for Malchus to ask anything. Instead, she beamed as she took a seat. "Hello there! Quite an eventful night so far, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," Malchus agreed. "But not nearly as eventful as tomorrow promises to be."

Dinah chuckled. "That's certainly true, I suppose – although in a different way. Me, I'm glad things haven't been so 'eventful' for me so far."

Malchus leaned forward a little. "How do you mean?"

Dinah shrugged. "I just meant there hasn't been as much drama in my little alliance as there seems to be in some. Orphelia and I have been doing just fine, we both got ourselves rather decent training scores, and I'm afraid neither of us has anything to confess to you tonight."

That got a chuckle out of the audience, but Morana's face began to flush. Merrik had only confessed to … well, whatever it was he had done … to keep her safe. And maybe to save his own life, as well. He certainly hadn't _wanted_ to turn on his ally, but what else could he have done?

"Well, that seems a shame," Malchus teased. "You're sure there's nothing juicy you want to share with us?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind sharing some of those juicy desserts that are backstage, if that's what you mean," Dinah offered, and the audience laughed.

Morana sighed, leaning back in her chair. She couldn't really blame the girl for trying to get a laugh out of the audience, even if it was at her son's expense. She was just doing the same thing Merrik was doing. The same thing _all_ the tributes were doing. She was trying to survive.

But in order for _Merrik_ to survive, she would have to die, and so would every other tribute on the stage tonight. Morana shook her head and turned away from the screen. She didn't want to see the rest. She didn't want to see their faces – the faces of the children who would have to die in order for her to hold her son again. She didn't want to remember their names, their faces, their stories.

She didn't want to know.

* * *

 **Eren Tillens, 42  
** **Father of Aleyn Tillens**

He hadn't really understood until now.

Eren shook his head as he watched the screen, waiting for his daughter to appear. Any other year, he would have been excited. Eager to catch a glimpse of which tributes might be promising, and which would be easy pickings for the stronger contenders. He may even have placed a wager or two with his friends from work.

But not this year. This year was different, and he had a feeling that, no matter how this year went, it would never be the same again. The Games had always seemed like a good alternative, an escape from the dreariness of everyday life in Four. At least _something_ exciting was happening when the Games were on. And when _he_ had grown up, there had been a steady stream of Careers from District Four, eager to take their chances in the Games. Even in more recent years, after the loss of the training academy, tributes had been careful to act like Careers, even if they were only Careers in name.

This year was different. Aleyn was different. She was no Career, and that had never bothered him. He'd enjoyed the Games, yes, but he'd never wanted to see Aleyn compete. She wasn't cut out for the Games – or so he had thought. But in the past few days, he'd found himself trying to believe differently. To convince himself that his daughter had what it took to make it home from the Games.

He'd almost managed to convince himself by the time she took the stage, wearing a simple, light purple dress and white flats. She looked so young, so … so _happy_. She wasn't, of course. She couldn't be happy to be there. She'd always been more like her mother, disgusted by the Games and what tributes had to do in order to win. But she was doing a good job of pretending.

Eren stole a glance at his wife. Milena's eyes were fixed on the screen, but he could see tears starting to form. Their little girl was about to be sent into the Games, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He'd always assumed that if she was chosen, someone would be there, prepared to volunteer. Volunteers weren't as much of a guarantee as they used to be, but surely _someone_ would have volunteered in her place, if they could.

If they could. But they couldn't. So instead of a Career, it was his own daughter taking a seat next to Malchus, doing her best to smile and wave at the audience. "Hello, Aleyn," Malchus beamed, as if he hadn't spent the night saying the same words to almost a dozen other tributes. And even more were to come. They weren't even halfway through the interviews yet. Eren drummed his fingers on his leg, waiting for Aleyn to respond.

It took her a moment to realize she was supposed to say something. Maybe it was just stage fright. "Hello, Malchus," she answered at last. "It's good to finally meet you."

"The pleasure's all mine, Aleyn," Malchus assured her. "It looks like it's going to be quite a year, and I'm thrilled to be a part of it."

He'd left the door wide open for her to enthusiastically agree, but instead, Aleyn just nodded a little. "I guess that makes sense. You've probably been waiting your whole life for this."

"Just like so many young hopefuls back in your district," Malchus agreed. "But _you_ got here first. How does that feel?"

Finally, Aleyn caught on. "Good. It feels really good to be here." She didn't sound particularly convincing, but maybe it would be enough for the audience. "I'm really looking forward to tomorrow."

"And what are you looking forward to the most?" Malchus prompted.

Aleyn leaned forward a little, getting a little more comfortable. "I guess I'm looking forward to seeing the arena. I know the Gamemakers must have something special planned. This is a Quarter Quell, after all. I'm sure it'll be the best arena yet."

Eren nodded approvingly. Considering her rather low training score and lack of fighting skills, flattery probably wasn't a bad way to go to try to please the sponsors. Maybe it wouldn't earn her any sponsor gifts right away, but if she managed to last a while…

Eren watched silently as Aleyn left the stage – the last time he would see her before the Games began. What if she _didn't_ last a while? She could be dead in a day, and most people in Panem wouldn't give her death a second thought. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. This was why they needed the Career system – to keep children like Aleyn out of the Games.

And children like quite a few of the others from the Career districts, if the interviews so far were anything to go by. So many of the usual Career districts had sent younger tributes. And, yes, some of them were more prepared, but given four or five more years, they could have been even _better_. They could have had even more of a chance.

Eren shook the thought from his head. The less prepared the other tributes were, after all, the better things would be for Aleyn. So the sight of the next girl, Arabel, should have made him happy. She was smiling broadly as she took the stage, but she clearly didn't want to be there any more than Aleyn did. That was better for him, of course. And better for his daughter.

But he couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She didn't deserve to be onstage any more than Aleyn did. Their places should have gone to Careers. To tributes who _wanted_ to be there.

Next year, of course, everything would be back to normal. But that would be too late to help Aleyn. Eren shook his head as he watched the other girl, who was wearing a light blue dress, the sleeves and neckline covered in lace. She looked so young – younger than her fifteen years. She certainly looked younger than Aleyn.

Maybe that was what the stylists had been going for, Eren realized as the girl responded to Malchus' compliment about her dress with a little giggle. "Well, thank you, Malchus. I had it made _just_ for this occasion."

That earned a laugh from the audience, and Malchus smiled. "You seem to be taking this quite well, all things considered. A six in training, a good group of allies. It seems like you're all set."

"I certainly hope so," Arabel agreed. "I have to admit, I'm a bit nervous, but … well, who wouldn't be?"

"Who, indeed." Malchus smiled warmly. "After all, it's a big day tomorrow – for all of us, but especially the thirty-five of you actually going into the Games. How do you suppose your alliance will fare at the start?"

"I'm just hoping we all make it out alive," Arabel admitted. "That would be quite the accomplishment for a group as large as ours."

Not a bad idea, really – setting the bar low. That way, even if Arabel and her allies – whoever they might be – didn't make it away from the bloodbath with anything, they would still look like contenders if they all managed to get away. Eren nodded as the girl continued to giggle along with Malchus. She apparently had some idea of what she was doing, and that … well, that could be dangerous.

Then again, for all he knew, she might be one of Aleyn's allies. Neither of the girls had said anything about _who_ their allies were. Was Aleyn part of the larger group she was talking about? Maybe. Maybe the two of them were staying tight-lipped on purpose. Or maybe it was a coincidence that neither of them had brought the subject up. If there wasn't anything particularly remarkable about either of their alliances, there would be no reason for Malchus to focus on the topic, and they only had a short amount of time.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Arabel's time was up and Emmett took her place, settling stiffly into his chair and glaring at the cameras. "Good evening, Emmett," Malchus beamed, unbothered by the tribute's hard stare. "I hear you're one of the few tributes who's decided to go it alone this year. Is that right?"

"Yes."

Malchus waited a moment, as if hoping for more of an answer. When nothing seemed forthcoming, he continued. "So tell me, what made you decide not to seek out an alliance, especially with so many options? Was there no one who met your standards?" he asked with a wink.

"No one who would have made a good ally, no," Emmett answered vaguely.

"I suppose sometimes alliances are more trouble than they're worth," Malchus reasoned. "At least this way, you won't have to worry about an ally turning on you in the middle of the Games." Nothing. No response. So Malchus decided to try a different angle. "I hear that you were quite the trainee once. Care to share what happened that made you decide it wasn't for you?"

"No."

"Pardon?"

"No, I don't want to share."

Malchus smirked. "Are you sure? I'm sure the audience would love to hear it. Would you like me to tell them?"

Emmett sprang to his feet, his hands clenched tightly into fists. "Don't you dare, you little—" he started, but then froze, catching himself. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at Malchus, who sat, unflinching, little more than a foot away. Maybe he was trying to figure out whether he'd be able to make a move against the Capitolite before the guards who were waiting offstage took him down.

If that was what he was thinking about, he apparently decided against it. Without another word, he turned and stormed off the stage, leaving the audience wondering what Malchus might have been getting at. For his part, Malchus shrugged off the outburst, motioning offstage for the next tribute to join him.

Ronan was shaking his head as he took Emmett's place, wearing a dark blue suit and a matching light blue tie with something sticking out of the top pocket. Eren couldn't quite tell what it was, but Malchus didn't seem concerned about the possibility that it might be a weapon. "Well, that was exciting," Malchus remarked as Ronan took a seat beside him. "What do you say we save any more surprises for the arena tomorrow?"

Ronan chuckled. "That's fine by me, Malchus. I promise not to try to throttle you if you ask me the wrong question."

"Good to know, good to know," Malchus agreed. "So I won't get in trouble if I ask you what you've got in your pocket there?"

"Not at all." Ronan reached into his pocket, still smiling as he removed a pair of glasses. "What do you think?" he asked as he put them on.

Malchus smiled. "Not exactly what I was expecting. I take it those are your district token."

Ronan nodded. "Usually, I only use them for reading. When I first got them, my little sister Brynn didn't even recognize me. Thought I was a complete stranger at first." He shrugged. "In her defense, she was barely two years old at the time."

That got a few chuckles from the audience, as well as a few "aww"s. "I don't suppose they'll be much help in the arena," Ronan admitted. "But I didn't really have anything else I wanted to risk losing in the arena. And I figure maybe they'll help me _see_ who's a friend and who isn't."

That got another round of laughter from the audience. "I hear you've found a few friends already," Malchus observed. "Care to tell us about your alliance?"

Ronan nodded. "Sure. Not exactly a secret. I'm working with Shanali and Kilian from District Eleven. Between us, we got some pretty good training scores, so I'm hoping we'll be able to do well."

Eren nodded. 'Pretty good' was an understatement, especially considering none of them were proper Careers. Ronan had earned a nine, and his allies from Eleven had earned a seven and an eight. Not bad at all for outer-district tributes, and some of the highest scores even among the so-called Careers.

So-called Careers. That was the tipping factor, really. In a regular Games, Ronan and his allies would never have scored so high. But with so few Careers to outscore them, _someone_ had to score high. The Gamemakers had to set the bar a little lower, or _everyone_ would have scored low. That was something they couldn't have if they wanted the sponsors to participate.

Eren shook his head as Ronan left the stage. The fact that the bar was lower only made Aleyn's three even less impressive than it already was. Sure, she was one of the younger tributes, but there were younger ones who had managed to outscore her. What sort of chance did she really have against tributes like Ronan? Against tributes like Emmett, who had been ready to attack the host of the Games? What chance did she really have of making it home again?

Eren turned his attention away from the screen. There were tears in his wife's eyes. Maybe she was wondering the same thing – wondering how slim the odds were that they would ever see their daughter again. But there was nothing they could do – nothing but wait and hope that Aleyn would be up to the challenge.

Nothing but hope that she would be able to surprise them.

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue."_


	30. Interviews: The Innocent Flower

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

* * *

 **Interviews  
** **The Innocent Flower**

* * *

 **Longson Liu, 38  
** **Father of Retro Liu**

None of this had been part of the plan.

Longson drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as he waited for Retro's turn. His son should have been safe. That was part of the beauty of the Career system, after all. He'd never been particularly enthusiastic about the Games himself, but they were a part of life in the districts. And if they had to exist – which they did – then it only made sense to send in the best-prepared tributes they could.

And Retro certainly didn't fit that description. Not only because of his age, but because he'd had no training whatsoever. He and May had never given it a second thought. Retro was their only child; they couldn't afford to take the chance of losing him to the Games. But now they had no say in the matter. In less than twenty-four hours, their son would be in the arena, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

He wasn't used to that. As a successful businessman, he'd always been able to exert enough influence to make sure things turned out the way he wanted when they really mattered. But not this time. He had no power over the Capitol, over their sponsors, over the audience that might be the deciding factor in whether his son lived or died.

It wasn't fair.

Finally, Retro appeared onstage, wearing a white polo shirt, a violet blazer and slacks, and a red tie. Unlike the boy before him, Retro didn't bother smiling at the crowd. And unlike the second girl from Four, he apparently knew better than to play up the "cute little tribute" angle. The audience saw plenty of young tributes every year. Only a handful had made it through the Games, and they certainly hadn't done so because they were innocent and cuddly. The girl last year had been twelve, but she had been a fighter. And if Retro was going to have a chance at winning, he would have to prove that he was willing to do the same.

"Welcome, Retro!" Malchus grinned despite Retro's somewhat blank stare. "It's a pleasure to have you here."

"It's a pleasure to be here," Retro answered politely, but not too enthusiastically.

"Thrilled to hear it. What's been your favorite part about the Capitol so far?"

Retro seemed to hesitate a moment, as if deciding whether his answer would help him or not. Finally, he decided to go ahead. "I'd say my favorite part has been meeting all sorts of different people. Certainly a lot more people than I would meet back home."

Malchus chuckled. "Not a lot of people in District Five? It's one of the largest districts!"

Retro blushed a little. "That's not what I meant. I … My family … My parents socialize in a very specific circle. I don't get to meet a lot of _different_ people. People who look different, act different, people who aren't so … traditional."

Longson raised an eyebrow. That would probably play well with the audience, considering how differently Capitolites acted in the first place. But what was Retro getting at? His son had never given the impression that he was anything but happy with the friends he had, the life that they had planned out for him. What more could he possibly want?

"I have a feeling there's a story there," Malchus pressed. "A secret, perhaps?"

Retro froze. But only for a second. "I know all of you saw the reaping. My father made a … bit of a scene."

Malchus chuckled. "Well, what parent wouldn't want to, I suppose?"

"But it wasn't about me being reaped," Retro continued. "It was about the fact that it was Jai who came to help bring me to the stage, since he and Harakuise are … you know."

"A couple?" Malchus finished. It wasn't exactly a secret. The pair of them had been living together since Harakuise had returned from his Games. They'd raised Camden together. They were a family – and certainly not a traditional one. Longson snorted. What was Malchus getting at? Everyone in District Five knew that. Surely everyone in the Capitol knew by now, too.

Retro nodded. "I guess I hadn't quite realized until then just how upset he would be if he knew. But maybe … maybe it doesn't matter now. I like boys, too. And girls. I like them both." He let out a deep breath. "There. I said it."

 _What?_

Longson shook his head. It had to be a joke. An attempt to win the Capitolites' favor. There was no _way_ he could be serious. No son of _his_ could be … like _that_. He was just trying to win the approval of the Capitolites and their funny ways.

That was the only explanation.

Longson glanced over at May, who was shaking her head. She clearly didn't believe it, either. If Retro made it back, he was in for a long lecture about how _some_ lies were unacceptable, no matter how good they made him look for the audience. How he simply _couldn't_ sully their family name like that.

By the time Longson regained his composure, Retro was leaving the stage. The older boy who took his place was wearing a simple black suit and a dark grey tie. He sat down slowly in his seat, never taking his eyes off the audience. "Well, then, Vashti, it's been quite a night for revelations," Malchus began. "Anything you'd like to share with us?"

Vashti's gaze grew even harsher for a moment. He clearly didn't _want_ to share anything, but, just as clearly, he knew that he wasn't going to get away with keeping secrets. "As if you aren't going to tell them if I refuse," Vashti scoffed. "As if you're going to keep my secret. You know there's a reason I scored so low – and unlike _some_ people, it has nothing to do with breaking the rules."

"Indeed," Malchus agreed. "I certainly wouldn't say it's your fault."

Vashti let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, no, of course not. Nothing is ever anyone's _fault_. Things just happen. Pesky little things like clotting disorders."

Malchus raised an eyebrow, as if he was surprised. As if _anything_ a tribute might say tonight would come as a surprise to him. "Clotting disorders?"

"Hemophilia, specifically." Vashti shrugged. "I guess the Gamemakers figured the same thing I did at the reaping – that it's only a matter of time before the inevitable happens. Tributes get injured all the time, after all. Most of the time, cuts and bruises are just part of the Games. But for me … well, that's a different story."

"Unless you get some help," Malchus prompted. He was trying to give Vashti an opening, allowing him to suggest that with a little help from the sponsors, he might stand a better chance.

But Vashti was having none of it. "Help? Right. There are thirty-five tributes going into the arena tomorrow. As if anyone's really going to waste their precious sponsor gifts on someone like me. No, I'm as good as dead already. But you know what? I'm going to take as many tributes down with me as I can."

That got some cheers from the audience. Vashti raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn't expected that. As if he hadn't expected them to like him. Maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he'd been coached well. Harakuise was his mentor, after all. Whatever else Longson thought of him, he had to admit that the bastard was smart. This was probably exactly how he'd planned to spin this.

Longson shook his head as Vashti left the stage. The boy was right; he was as good as dead already. But at least he was planning to put up a fight. Longson just hoped his own son wouldn't get caught in the crossfire.

Macauley was beaming as she took Vashti's place, wearing a golden-brown blouse and a black knee-length skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, which gave a little bounce as she took a seat across from Malchus. "Sorry, Malchus," she apologized before he could say a word. "I don't have any juicy secrets to spill."

Malchus chuckled. "That was quick."

"Just figured I'd get it out of the way," Macauley offered. "No point in digging, really. I'm an open book."

"Well, just from glancing at the cover, I'd say you're quite excited for tomorrow," Malchus observed. "Feeling prepared?"

"Absolutely," Macauley agreed immediately. "This is what I've wanted my whole life."

"That's quite refreshing to hear tonight," Malchus pointed out. "Quite the stroke of luck, getting picked when you would have loved to volunteer anyway."

"Well, I suppose I could have volunteered next year," Macauley reasoned. "But being part of a Quarter Quell – that's even better. How many people can say that?" She chuckled a little. "Well, I suppose thirty-six tributes from last time, but how many people can say they've _won_ one? Only one so far."

"So tell us why you think you have what it takes to be the second Victor to emerge from a Quarter Quell."

Macauley grinned. "Well, just look at who won the _last_ one. If a kid from District Twelve can win one, I've practically got it in the bag, wouldn't you say?"

Longson rolled his eyes. Sure, Brennan had won twenty-five years ago. He remembered that quite well. Mercury, one of the girls from Five, had come in second, after all, so he'd been paying attention right up to the very end. There had been Careers that year, as well. Not as many as a normal year, perhaps, but enough to make a pack. And they had failed. They were dead, and Brennan had survived.

Soon, Macauley's time was up. On her way off the stage, she traded a high five with the next boy, Elliot. Elliot grinned as he sprinted to a seat across from Malchus, wearing a bright blue suit, silver tie, and black shoes. "Welcome, Elliot," Malchus chuckled. "It seems like Macauley isn't the only one who's excited for tomorrow. I've heard the two of you will be working together."

"Along with the rest of the Careers," Elliot confirmed. "There are quite a few of us this time around, but strength in numbers and all that, I suppose. That's how the Career systems started, after all."

"Indeed," Malchus agreed. "But sometimes the greatest threats to the Career pack end up coming from within."

Elliot nodded. "I said I was working with them, not turning my back on them. My time at the academy was enough to teach me that, at least."

Malchus nodded. "Yes, I'd heard you spent some time there. That makes two tributes from District Five with a fair amount of training. Not a bad bit of luck, really. And a pair of eights in training – that's pretty impressive."

"Now, luck had nothing to do with _that_ ," Elliot pointed out with a grin. "I earned that eight just like the rest of them. Turns out, I impressed the Gamemakers just as much as a fourteen-year-old from Two. That's something, right?"

That got a laugh from the audience. Longson shook his head. Despite Elliot's jovial attitude, an eight certainly meant that he was a threat. Retro had only scored a three, after all. Maybe that wasn't surprising for a twelve-year-old, but the only ones who had scored lower were a hemophiliac, a girl who had fainted at the reaping, a boy who hadn't been able to find his way to the stage, and a pair of tributes who had admitted to breaking the rules. That certainly didn't bode well for Retro.

Longson drummed his fingers on his leg. Retro _had_ to make it back, now more than ever. He _had_ to survive. It was the only way he could tell the Capitol that he hadn't really meant it. That he had been lying. That he wasn't going to sully the Liu family name with his claims. Longson clenched his fists tightly. His son _had_ to make it back. But what if he didn't?

What was he going to do then?

* * *

 **Lana Khatri, 16  
** **Sister of Lena Khatri**

She wasn't sure whether to be angry or proud.

Lana leaned forward as the boy from Five left the stage. Now that it was Lena's turn, maybe she would finally get to find out what it was that her sister had done. Breaking the rules had never really been Lena's style, but maybe her sister had learned something from her, after all.

Just in time for it to get her killed.

 _Stop it._ She couldn't start thinking like that. Sure, the Gamemakers had given her a low training score, but maybe they would consider that punishment enough. Maybe they wouldn't take it out on her once the Games began. Tributes with low training scores had won before. Two years ago, the boy from Nine had only gotten a two, and _he'd_ still won. Maybe there was still a chance.

Lena's smile looked forced as she took the stage, wearing a light blue dress dotted with red flowers. "Hello there, Lena," Malchus nodded as she took a seat across from him. "It seems you and your ally – excuse me, _former_ ally – did something that might be considered a bit out of bounds. Care to share your take on the matter?"

Lena looked down at her hands. Then back at Malchus. Then at the audience. What was she waiting for? All she had to do was the same thing that the boy from Three had done. All she had to do was blame him, instead, for whatever it was. Surely that was what everyone was expecting. He'd called off the alliance, after all. She had no reason to try to protect him.

Instead, Lena took a deep breath. "I'm afraid it was my fault, Malchus."

Malchus leaned forward. Clearly, that wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it was my fault. I panicked. It happened when he came out of his training session. He looked so frazzled, I wasn't thinking. I asked what had happened. I just wanted some hint about what was coming. He didn't want to tell me, but I pressed him, and … well, he told me what to expect. What the Gamemakers had planned for the private sessions."

"I see."

Lena kept going. "When I came out of _my_ session, I … I guess I just felt guilty for having an edge going in. I didn't think I should get a high score when I knew what was coming and everyone else didn't. So … I told them."

Lana nearly burst out laughing. That was it? _That_ was what she'd done? Of course that would be Lena's idea of breaking the rules. Leveling the playing field, sharing what she'd learned. Of _course_ that would be what her sister would get in trouble for.

Malchus nodded understandingly. "I think a lot of things can happen in a moment of panic. That certainly explains your training score, but I don't think there's any need for one mistake to color your time in the Games … as long as something like this isn't likely to happen again."

Lana clenched her fists. He was giving Lena a chance to admit she was wrong. To beg for the Capitol's forgiveness, throw herself at their mercy. But the Capitol didn't _have_ any mercy. Fifty years of the Hunger Games had taught the districts that. The Capitol's retribution for the tributes' rebellion in the Hunger Games nine years ago had reinforced that. What had happened to Lena's own mentor should have been enough to convince her that the Capitol wouldn't simply forgive her.

But what choice did she have? Lena turned to the audience, a few tears in her eyes. "It won't happen again. I promise. I made a mistake; that's all there is to it. I'm ready to play the Games now … even if it means I'll be playing alone."

Lana nodded a little. Lena's little stunt had cost her an ally. It had cost her a better training score. But maybe it didn't have to cost her her life. Not yet.

Soon, Lena's time was up, and the older girl, Charu, took her place, wearing a short-sleeved red dress that hung just below her knees. It was overlaid with black lace and a black ribbon around her waist, and she wore matching black pumps. The tattoos that had covered her hands at the reaping had been redone, and a design had been added to the left side of her face. Her hair was pulled back neatly in a bun, and she was grinning from ear to ear.

Malchus was clearly relieved to have a tribute who seemed happy to be there. "Well, Charu, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself. What is it about the Games that makes someone from District Six so excited?"

Charu giggled. "Is it really that unusual?"

"A bit, perhaps," Malchus admitted. "I don't think I've seen a tribute from Six this eager to be in the Games since … well, since your mentor."

"Then I guess that's something we have in common," Charu agreed. "He wanted to be in the Games to take on his rival. I'm happy to be here to escape something just as bad."

"And what would that be?"

"A marriage."

Malchus gasped dramatically, feigning surprise. "A _marriage_? How awful."

Charu laughed along with him. "I guess it doesn't sound so bad, when you put it like that. But it was an _arranged_ marriage, to someone I didn't love. To someone I _couldn't_ love, even if he wasn't such a stuck-up snob."

"And why would that be?" Malchus prodded in a tone that left no doubt that he already knew.

Charu blushed a little. "I just don't like boys. Never have."

"Girls, then?"

Charu nodded. "I've gone along with the arrangement for a year now, hoping that something would happen to interrupt it. And then … well, the Games happened. And no matter what happens now, I'll always be grateful for that. Because even if I die in the Games, that's better than having to live a lie for the rest of my life."

Lana scoffed. Sure, she said that now. But once she was actually in the arena, once death actually found her, she would be begging for her cozy life as a rich boy's wife. She had no idea what she was getting into. What _Vernon_ had gotten her into. What had he been thinking? Did he really think that sending _her_ into the Games would be a better option?

No. No, he hadn't been thinking. Just like he hadn't been thinking when he'd confused her and Lena. So far, he'd had a pretty good track record of choosing tributes that no one was likely to miss, but maybe this was the year he would finally upset someone who had the power to do something about it. Charu's family was pretty powerful in District Six…

Lana drummed her fingers on her leg as Charu kept grinning and giggling like an idiot. If she was lucky, she would never realize just how wrong she was to think that life in District Six – even a life she didn't necessarily want – could be worse than the Games.

If she was lucky, someone would kill her first.

* * *

 **Keithira Sorena, 47  
** **Mother of Nephelle Sorena**

She couldn't imagine keeping that sort of secret.

Keithira shook her head as she watched the older girl from Six leave the stage. She was the second tribute so far who seemed worried about what their family would think if they knew who they liked. Who they loved. She couldn't imagine Nephelle keeping that sort of thing a secret from her. Surely she knew that she wouldn't have to.

Keithira shook the thought from her head. The interviewer was just trying to create drama, to spice things up for the Capitol. But all the same, it was rare that a host would try to stir up drama where there was none at all. There had to be something to stir up, some hint of truth in the exaggerations in order to make the story believable. An arranged marriage wasn't something that he would have brought up if there hadn't been one.

Keithira held her breath as Nephelle took the stage, wearing a short, silky, leaf green skirt and a green top that flowed from a lighter green at the top to a darker one at the bottom. She wore green high heels and emerald earrings. Nephelle nodded politely at the audience as she took a seat. Not too excited, not too reluctant. Everything in balance; that was what Keithira had always taught her daughters.

"Hello, Nephelle," Malchus began, returning her smile. "It's hard to believe we're halfway through the districts already, isn't it."

"And more than halfway through the tributes," Nephelle added, "considering how many extras there are this year from the Career districts."

"But only two from Seven," Malchus agreed. "That must be something of a relief."

"For whoever else would have been picked, I suppose," Nephelle agreed. "Doesn't make much of a difference to me or Thomas whether there were two of us or three or even four. Except for dividing our mentors' attention, I suppose, but that's one of the benefits of working together as a district."

"Ah, so the two of you are allies, then?"

Nephelle nodded. "And Aven from District Nine. I think we'll make a good team. For a while, at least."

"That's always the catch, isn't it. 'For a while.' Nothing lasts forever in the Games."

"Nothing lasts forever anywhere," Nephelle pointed out. "I'm a tree-planter back in District Seven, and we all know when we plant those trees that they'll eventually be cut down. All that hard work, seemingly for nothing. Except it _isn't_ for nothing, because those trees are what let us build furniture and make books and carve all sorts of lovely things. Even these chairs we're sitting in right now. See the patterns in the wood? Someone carved that, and the wood probably came from District Seven. That tree didn't last forever, but some part of it is still here, reminding us that it existed. Reminding us of its beauty."

Keithira couldn't help a smile. Even the audience seemed to appreciate the analogy, or at least the fact that Nephelle liked their artwork. Maybe she wasn't as obvious in her attempts to flatter the audience as some of the tributes had been so far, but she wasn't being openly hostile, either.

Everything in balance.

Soon, Nephelle's time was up, and Thomas took her place, wearing a dark green suit and a black tie. He nodded to Nephelle as they passed each other, then settled into his seat across from Malchus. "It seems you've found yourself a good alliance, Thomas," Malchus remarked.

Thomas nodded. "Like she said, working with your district partner is a good idea if you can. It means your mentors can help both of you at once."

"Of course, there are times when that might not work out so well," Malchus pointed out.

Thomas shrugged. "Sure, if there's a bigger age difference or something. Not every eighteen-year-old would want to work with a twelve-year-old. But Nephelle and I are pretty evenly matched, I'd say, and we both have the same attitude towards the Games."

"Which is?"

"I'd say it's a rather pragmatic one. We both realize that only one of us is getting out of here alive. Like you said, nothing lasts forever. But at the same time, it doesn't hurt to have someone watching your back for a while."

For a while. There were those words again. No matter how well they might work together, the fact was that their alliance couldn't last forever. And unlike the tree that Nephelle had been talking about, once their alliance was over with, there wouldn't be anything left of it to remind people of how beautiful it had once been. Only one person survived the Games, and once they did, it didn't really matter who their allies had been, because they were dead. They were gone. That was all there was to it.

Wasn't it?

Maybe. Both of District Seven's Victors were still on good terms with their former allies' families. Hazel had been allies with the boy from her district, which was the only reason a twelve-year-old had made it to the end of the Games in the first place. And Casper had practically been adopted by Lydia's family. But that was the exception, not the rule.

Keithira shook her head. She couldn't imagine being that generous, if her daughter wasn't the one to come home. If Thomas came home instead of Nephelle, would she be able to treat him the same way? Or would she blame him for something he had no control over – that, in the end, it was either Nephelle's life or his?

Keithira shook her head as she turned back to the screen. There was nothing wrong with Thomas. He seemed like a perfectly nice boy. But in order for Nephelle to make it home, quite a few perfectly nice boys and girls would have to die. And maybe some of them weren't _quite_ so nice, but the fact was that most of the kids going into the arena simply didn't deserve it. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. But it was the way things were.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

 **Austen Gordon, 84  
** **Father of Klaudia Almasy**

There wasn't anything he could do but watch.

Austen shook his head as he leaned back on the couch, holding his daughter Eniko and granddaughter Daria close. Maybe he was lucky to be able to watch, considering what he'd tried to do at the reaping. He hadn't been thinking. He had been desperate. Klaudia wouldn't last long in the Games; he'd known that the second she'd been reaped. After everything she'd already been through, it wasn't fair to send her into the Games, too.

Maybe it would have done some good, if volunteers had been allowed. It was rare for outer-district tributes to volunteer, but it wasn't completely unheard of. The year Carolina had won, her district partner had volunteered. There had been a handful since then, including the rebels who had caused so much trouble nine years ago. Which had certainly made the Capitol suspicious of outer-district volunteers, but _maybe_ it could have happened.

Maybe. But volunteers weren't allowed this year. In less than twenty-four hours, Klaudia would be in the Games. In the arena. It wasn't fair, but it was the way things were. And the best thing he could do right now was keep quiet, stay in his place, and not interfere.

That was what he kept telling himself. What he kept telling Eniko. That if they did anything – _tried_ anything – Klaudia was as good as dead. Neither of them wanted to admit that her chances were slim as they were. That she would be lucky to make it away from the bloodbath, to say nothing of actually being expected to fight the other tributes.

Austen watched silently as Klaudia's district partner, Mariska, took the stage, wearing a black and silver dress that was glittering in the lights. Mariska's expression, however, was anything but sparkling. It wasn't the same glare that some of the tributes had given Malchus, but it was clear that she didn't want to be there.

Not that he could really blame her for that. _None_ of the tributes wanted to be there. "Hello there, Mariska," Malchus beamed anyway. "I've heard a lot about you."

Mariska raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"It seems you knew one of our tributes from last year. Willa Lane, I believe."

Mariska's expression flickered for a moment, but then she nodded. "Yes."

"You were friends, I believe?"

"Yes."

"More than friends?"

Mariska hesitated a moment, but then answered. "Not that it's any business of yours, but yes."

"That must have been terrible for you last year, watching her fight for her life. And she came _so_ close, too. Do you remember that?"

Mariska reached down to fiddle with something around her wrist – a bracelet of some sort, made of buttons. "Yes."

"Care to give us any more details?"

"No," Mariska answered flatly.

"Pardon?"

"No. You saw the Games last year. You know what happened. So if you want me to sit here and tell you, the answer is no. And if you want to know how I felt … the answer is still no. She's dead. The Games took her from me, from her parents, from our district. You got to watch her fight for her life for nineteen days. You got to watch her die. But you don't get to know what I felt. That's mine, and mine alone." She shook her head. "And I'll take it to my grave."

Austen felt a smile creeping across his face. The girl certainly had spirit; he had to give her that. The host was giving her a chance to win the audience's favor with her story, but it was more important to her not to use the tragedy of the previous Games to win their approval. Her friend deserved better than that.

He remembered the girl from the previous year. Willa had made it farther than most people had initially assumed she would. She'd been sweet, but she'd also been willing to fight. But nineteen days in, she'd been overpowered by one of the few remaining Careers, her body left in pieces with a bone saw. The thought made his stomach churn; he could only imagine what that must have been like for someone who had actually known her.

It wasn't long before Mariska's time was up, and she looked relieved that it was over with. As she left the stage, Austen leaned forward, looking for any sign of Klaudia. It was a moment before he saw her, just behind the curtain, trembling. Malchus motioned to her, but she shook her head. It wasn't until Carolina took her hand and led her halfway onstage that she was finally convinced there was no getting out of this.

"Well, well, it looks like someone's got a little stage fright," Malchus remarked sympathetically. "No worries, Klaudia. We're all friends here."

Klaudia opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I…"

But she didn't get any farther than that. Before she could get another word out, tears began streaming down her cheeks. Austen realized he was crying, as well. She was only doing what so many of the tributes probably _wished_ they could. Most of them were better at pretending. Most of them realized that they only stood a chance if they convinced the audience that they were ready to play the Games.

Klaudia knew better. She _didn't_ have a chance. Not really. And she was too honest, too innocent, to sit there and lie to them – or to herself. Austen wrapped his arms around Eniko and Daria. It wasn't fair. None of this was right.

But there was nothing they could do.

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower."_


	31. Interviews: The Serpent

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Thanks to NaNoWriMo, we're almost to the Games! Remember to vote in the sponsor poll if you haven't already.

* * *

 **Interviews  
** **The Serpent**

* * *

 **Iliana James, 13  
** **Friend of Ti Bulgur**

She wished someone would do something.

Iliana shook her head as the older girl from Eight continued to cry. She'd barely gotten a word or two out before she'd burst into tears. Malchus was doing his best to comfort her, to tell her everything was going to be all right, but the words just sounded hollow. It _wasn't_ going to be all right. Not for her, certainly. Not for thirty-four of them.

Suddenly, another figure darted onstage, quickly throwing his arms around Klaudia and holding on tightly. With his face away from the cameras, it took Iliana a moment to recognize the younger boy from her district. Barlen – that was his name. His turn was next, anyway, so maybe they didn't mind that he was interrupting.

Klaudia, for her part, pulled away a little. "Sorry," Barlen apologized, backing away. "You just looked sad. Are you okay?"

Klaudia looked surprised by the question. "I … No. Not really, no."

Barlen opened his arms wide. "Would you like a hug?"

For a moment, Klaudia didn't respond. Then, to Iliana's surprise, she threw her arms around the younger boy and held him tightly for a moment before turning and fleeing the stage. Barlen settled into her place in the chair across from Malchus.

Malchus actually looked a little relieved. "Thank you, Barlen."

A smile crossed Barlen's face. "Happy to help."

Malchus nodded. "Your ally seems to have the same attitude. I'd say you two are going to make a good team."

Barlen hesitated for a moment, but then glanced down at something on his arm. "Yeah, I think Leo and I are going to make a good team. He's very patient."

"Because of your memory problems?"

Barlen looked away for a moment, a little embarrassed. "I don't mean to forget things. It just happens."

"Is that why you wrote yourself notes on your arm?"

Barlen nodded. "Want to see?" He rolled back his sleeve to show that he'd written himself two notes. " _You're in the Hunger Games"_ was written just above his wrist. A little farther down his arm were the words " _Leo = Friend."_

"Seems like you've got quite a bit of room left there," Malchus offered.

Barlen nodded. "Sure. Basil wants me to keep track of how many days I've been in the arena, how many tributes are still alive, where Leo and I are – that sort of thing. It's a good idea, as long as I remember to write things down."

That earned a few laughs from the audience. Barlen grinned. "See? I already remembered to tell a joke."

Iliana couldn't help smiling along. Barlen seemed like a nice enough kid. Which was a good thing in District Nine, where kind, decent people sometimes seemed to be in short supply. But in the Games, there were few things that were more certain to cause a tribute problems than being _kind_. People wouldn't forget the fact that he had gone out of his way to help Klaudia, and there were plenty of tributes who wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of that kindness.

Iliana wrapped her arms around her knees, grateful that Ti apparently hadn't made the same mistake. She wasn't sure who he _was_ working with, but she had no doubt that Barlen would have mentioned if they were allies. Or, at least, he would have written that on his arm, too. So who _was_ Ti working with?

She wouldn't have to wait long to get her answer. Soon, Barlen's time was up, and Ti took his place, clapping the younger boy on the back as they passed. Iliana hoped Ti was just being friendly. She hoped that…

That what? That once they were in the Games, Ti would have what it took to realize that the younger boy was his competition? That he might have to kill someone like Barlen in order to come home? How could she wish that on her friend? But the alternative was worse. If he _wasn't_ willing to kill, there was no way he would be coming back to District Nine. No way she would ever see him again.

"Quite a night, isn't it, Malchus?" Ti asked before the host could get a word out.

"It certainly has been," Malchus agreed. "What's been your favorite part so far?"

"I've really enjoyed learning about the other tributes tonight," Ti answered after taking a few seconds to think it over. "There have been quite a few interesting stories. Quite a lot of emotions."

"And do you have anything you'd like to share?"

Ti chuckled. "I'm not going to cry on your shoulder if that's what you're talking about. And I'm just fine without a hug, thank you."

The audience laughed, and Iliana chuckled along. Taking a few shots at the emotional tributes before him might earn him some points with the audience members who were getting tired of listening to the same sort of answers from one tribute after another. After nine districts – most of them with extra tributes – the audience had to be growing restless. She just hoped some of them were still paying attention.

Malchus smiled. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk about your allies for a moment. Care to share who you'll be working with in the arena?"

"David and Retro," Ti answered. "Maybe we're not the most intimidating bunch, but I wouldn't write us off just yet."

"Certainly not," Malchus agreed. "I look forward to seeing what the three of you have in store for us."

"Thank you, Malchus," Ti answered politely. "I promise we won't let you down."

Iliana cocked her head a little. There was something in Ti's voice that seemed a bit … off. A bit strained. Was there something going on in his alliance?

Maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things. Iliana shook the thought from her head as Ti left the stage. He knew what he was doing. He had to. He was the one who was going to be in the Games, after all. She would just have to trust that he knew what he was getting into.

Aven smiled warmly as she took his place onstage, settling into a seat across from Malchus. "Hello, Aven," Malchus grinned. "How are you enjoying your time in the Capitol so far?"

"It's wonderful," Aven answered immediately. "I think I speak for all of us tributes when I say I wish we didn't have to leave it." She flashed the audience a smile, and got a few laughs from the ones who were still paying attention.

"Three days isn't much time to prepare for the Games," Malchus agreed. "Do you feel like you're ready?"

Aven shrugged. "As ready as I'm ever going to be, I suppose. And as far as the other tributes … well, I don't think I'll ever get better odds than this. Careers who are less prepared than usual. Two good allies. I'd say I'm good to go."

"And your allies – the pair from District Seven, yes?"

"That's right. Nephelle and Thomas."

"I suppose that's a good alliance to have if there ends up being a lot of vegetation in the arena. Trees, bushes, flowers – that sort of thing. Tributes from Seven are usually pretty familiar with plant life."

Aven leaned forward a little. "Is that a hint?" She grinned playfully.

Malchus chuckled. "Speculation – nothing more. They haven't even told _me_ what the arena is."

Aven gasped dramatically. "Really?"

Malchus nodded. "I'll find out when you do – tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow morning. Iliana let the words sink in. There wasn't a lot of time left. One more night, and the next morning Ti would be in the arena. In the Games. By this time tomorrow, he would be fighting for his life … or he would be dead.

She wasn't ready for that.

* * *

 **Cameron Tate, 13  
** **Sister of Skyton Tate**

She wasn't ready for this.

Cameron twirled her hair as the girl from Nine left the stage. It was almost Skyton's turn. But despite the fact that he was one of the last tributes who would take the stage, she still wasn't ready to see him. She didn't _want_ to see this, because seeing him onstage with Malchus would mean it was real. This was really happening. Her older brother was going to be in the Games tomorrow, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

But as much as _she_ wasn't ready for it, she knew Skyton must be even more nervous. He'd never liked crowds, never liked attention. In fact, she wouldn't be entirely surprised if he simply burst into tears like the girl from Eight. It was hard to blame her; at least she realized just how hopeless the situation was. At least she had some sense.

Skyton's district partner, Connor, on the other hand, was practically beaming as he took the stage, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a simple white shirt. He took a seat next to Malchus, still smiling. Trying to appear confident.

Apparently, it was working well enough for the audience's liking. There was some applause as he gave them a wave. "Hello, Connor," Malchus began. "Good to see some enthusiasm from District Ten."

"It's my pleasure to be here," Connor insisted. He was lying, of course. No one from District Ten was _pleased_ to be in the Games. But at least he was doing a good job of pretending. "The Capitol is every bit as amazing as I imagined."

"Why, thank you," Malchus chuckled. "I'm sure District Ten is quite nice, too."

Connor shrugged. "It may not be much by Capitol standards, but it's home. I never really wanted anything more than a simple life in my district, but I guess fate had other plans. I just hope I'm able to make them proud."

"I'm sure you will," Malchus assured him. "And I hear you've got yourself quite the sizable alliance."

Connor nodded. "Well, there's me and my district partner Skyton. Then there's Arabel from Four and Klaudia from Eight."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. He was working with Skyton? That came as a bit of a surprise. And Klaudia? The girl from Eight who hadn't been able to stop crying during her interview? That was certainly an odd choice. Maybe he was counting on her getting some sympathy from the sponsors, but that would only last so long.

Or maybe he was simply assuming that there was safety in numbers, no matter who those numbers were. And maybe there was some truth to that. Surrounding himself with targets who were easier to pick off wasn't an unreasonable strategy. Cameron shook her head, hoping that Skyton wouldn't be one of those easier targets.

When he'd been reaped, she might have assumed that he would be. But his training score had caught her by surprise. It wasn't unheard of for an outer-district tribute to earn a seven, but she hadn't expected _him_ to. And that made his score the highest in their alliance. _Something_ he'd done had impressed the Gamemakers.

She just wished she knew what.

Apparently, the audience was wondering the same thing. Connor and Skyton got a round of applause as they traded places. Skyton waved shyly as he took a seat across from Malchus, wearing a plain white shirt, overalls, and a straw hat. Cameron couldn't help a chuckle. Their stylists were apparently having fun, and the audience seemed to enjoy it.

"Welcome, Skyton," Malchus began. "You're looking quite … comfortable."

Skyton took a piece of straw from the hat and stuck it in his mouth. "Thank you, Malchus. It's wonderful to be here."

"Good to hear it. Connor was just telling us about your alliance."

"He didn't tell you everything, I hope."

Malchus grinned. "No, not everything. Certainly not what you did to earn yourself a seven. Pretty impressive for a kid from District Ten."

Skyton blushed. "Thank you, Malchus. Honestly, I just went in and did my best and hoped the Gamemakers would see what I was capable of."

"And I suppose they did just that," Malchus agreed. "I know we're all looking forward to what you'll have to show us tomorrow."

"I wish I _knew_ what I was going to show you tomorrow," Skyton admitted. "But there's really no way to know beforehand, I suppose. So much of what happens tomorrow depends on what happens at the start. What the arena is like. How the bloodbath plays out."

"Any big plans for the start of the Games, then?"

Skyton shrugged. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

"I guess we will," Malchus agreed reluctantly. "I can't wait!"

Cameron shook her head. _She_ could wait. In fact, she wished she could wait a lot longer than one more day before the Games began. Part of her wanted it to be over with, one way or another, but the other part wanted to hold onto every moment. To soak up every image she could of her brother before…

Before tomorrow. Before the Games. Before one of two things would happen. Either he would be killed, or he would eventually end up having to kill someone else. She wasn't sure which of those options Skyton would consider to be worse.

No. No, that wasn't quite right, either. She _was_ sure. She just didn't want to admit it to herself. Try as she might, she couldn't imagine Skyton being able to kill another tribute. Another person. Another kid who just wanted the same thing he did: to come home. She couldn't picture it, and she was certain he wouldn't be able to imagine doing it, either.

But she had been surprised before. There had been tributes in the last few years who she had been certain didn't have it in them to kill. And certainly none of them had _wanted_ to, but when push had come to shove, they'd chosen to put their own life first. Maybe Skyton could do the same. Maybe.

If only for a little while.

* * *

 **Devan Romane, 13  
** **Brother of Kilian Romane**

He would only have to wait a little longer.

Devan rocked back and forth a little as he watched the screen. It was almost his brother's turn. On the one hand, that was good because he would get to see Kilian's interview. On the other hand, it meant there were only two districts left to go. Only five more tributes. Then the interviews would be over, and then…

Then, in the morning, the Games would begin. Devan shivered. It seemed so close now. Only five more tributes to go.

The younger boy from Eleven took the stage next, wearing loose, white, linen pants and a blue tunic. He was grinning broadly despite the fact that he'd had to wait so long for his turn. "Good to finally be up here," he commented as he joined Malchus onstage. "But I guess we have to save the best for last. Well, _near_ last."

Malchus chuckled along. "Maybe. I did suggest that it might do us some good to shuffle up the order of the districts during the interviews, but apparently that would be a bit _confusing_ ," he finished with a wink at the cameras.

"Oh, I don't know." Wes shrugged. "I think people would be able to follow along. But I suppose it's a bit late to try it out this year."

"Maybe next year?" Malchus offered.

Wes chuckled. "Maybe, but I'm not ready to think about next year just yet. I just want to get through _this_ year first. If I manage to do that, you can do the interviews in whatever order you like next year."

"Well, thank you for your permission," Malchus grinned.

"You're quite welcome."

"Now, Wes, can I be honest about something?"

"If you must."

"A three in training – not the most impressive achievement. Care to say a word or two about that?"

Wes chuckled. "No secrets to spill here, I'm afraid. I didn't break any rules, but I guess _someone_ has to score on the low end. Besides, it's not like I have to worry about being booted out of my alliance for a low score or anything – not like the Careers. One of my allies got a three, and the others got a four and a five." He grinned. "But once we're in the Games tomorrow, I think you'll agree that scores aren't everything."

Devan shook his head. Maybe scores weren't _everything_ , but he was still quite proud that Kilian had gotten a seven. And his allies – Shanali and Ronan – had gotten an eight and a nine. Not too shabby at all.

Finally, Wes' time was up, and Kilian took the stage, wearing a plain dark blue suit, light blue shirt, and a black tie. Malchus was beaming as Kilian took a seat across from him. "Hello, Kilian. I hope the wait backstage wasn't too uncomfortable."

"Oh, not at all," Kilian assure him. "To be honest, I wouldn't mind waiting back there for the rest of the Games."

Malchus chuckled. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm sure once I'm actually in the arena, I'll get the hang of things pretty quickly. It just takes some getting used to – the idea that I'm going to be away from District Eleven for a while. Away from my family."

"You have a younger brother, yes?"

"And an older sister," Kilian agreed. "But she moved out a while ago. It's just the three of us now – my father, my brother Devan, and me. I'd do anything to get back to them."

"That's always good to hear," Malchus assured him. "Some tributes are a bit squeamish at first about what they'll have to do in order to get back. But not you?"

"I can't afford to be. They need me. And I know you hear that a lot," he admitted with a glance at the audience. "Everybody has someone that they want to get back to. Fifty years, and I'm sure not many of your tributes have sat up here and said that there's no one at home who needs them. No one who's waiting for them. But … well, they _do_ need me. And my family _is_ waiting for me. And I'll do whatever it takes to make it back to District Eleven."

 _Whatever it takes._ Devan did his best to ignore the churning in his stomach. What Kilian meant – and what he was trying to avoid saying – was that, when it came down to it, he was willing to kill in order to get back to them. He was willing to go out there and fight tributes who were no older than Devan, maybe even to kill them, in order to come home.

Not that Devan blamed him for that. How could he? He would do the same thing in Kilian's position. Well, if he could, at least. Kilian was certainly better suited to the Games than he was, but that didn't mean much when there were plenty of older, stronger tributes in the arena.

But not Careers. Well, not _many_ of them, at least. They seemed to have found enough to form a pack, but he'd gotten the impression they were stretching the definition of 'trained' in order to add more people to their group. That was encouraging, at least. In a normal year, Kilian would probably have been somewhere around the middle of the group of tributes. Older, but not overly strong. Capable, but maybe not all that impressive.

But _this_ year, without as many Careers, the tributes from the outer districts had more of a chance than they normally would. _Kilian_ had more of a chance than he would have otherwise. And maybe he should be grateful for that.

Right. Grateful. His brother had been taken away to the Capitol, and they might never see each other again. And he was supposed to be grateful that it had happened this year rather than in a normal year with the usual number of Careers. Grateful that there was a _slightly_ more level playing field than was typical, that his brother had a _slightly_ better chance than in an average year.

Before long, Kilian's time was up, and he traded places with his ally and district partner, Shanali. She smiled politely as she took a seat across from Malchus, wearing a long black skirt and a grey shirt with a little lace around the collar and the sleeves. "Hello, Shanali," Malchus began. "You're looking quite lovely tonight."

"Thank you, Malchus. The Capitol's stylists do good work."

"Excellent. I'm sure they're always glad to know that their work is appreciated."

"It certainly is. Just imagine – all that work put in for just a few nights out of the year, except for the stylist from one lucky district who gets to work on the after-Games side of things." She smiled sweetly. "I hope our district is the lucky one this year."

"I'm sure your stylists are hoping for the same thing," Malchus teased. "Got any plans for how to make certain that's the case?"

"I don't think there is such a thing as 'certain' in the Games," Shanali observed. "Every year, there seem to be tributes who are certain about how things are going to go once they're in the arena, certain about some sort of plan they've come up with. And they're usually some of the first to die, because they're too stubborn to change their tactics when things don't go according to their plan."

"So your plan is … to not have a plan."

"That's right."

Malchus shrugged. "Works for me."

That got a few laughs from the audience, but Devan nodded along. In a way, it made sense. Other than the fact that only one tribute came out alive, there weren't a lot of things that were the same from year to year when it came to the Games. The arena was different. The mutts were different. The other tributes were different. So trying to base a strategy on what had happened in previous years _did_ seem a bit silly.

Still, he hoped Kilian had at least _some_ sort of plan and wasn't going to try to wing it the whole time. That was all well and good back in District Eleven, where things were pretty similar from day to day. In the Games, one wrong move could mean the difference between life and death. So even if they didn't have every move planned out in advance, Devan hoped that Kilian and his allies would at least think things through before acting.

Because that was the only way he had any hope of seeing his brother again.

* * *

 **Reynold Mykonos, 47  
** **Father of Orphelia Mykonos**

He hoped the audience was still paying attention.

Reynold stretched a little as the girl from Eleven left the stage. The cameras were focused on the stage, but every so often, he caught a glimpse of the audience, and their attention had begun to dwindle about halfway through. They were used to the Career districts being the most exciting, and apparently that expectation had carried over even though most of the tributes from the usual districts weren't even Careers. Now, people were yawning. Stretching. Shifting in their chairs. They'd been sitting still too long, and the end was in sight.

On top of that, Orphelia had the distinction of being the last tribute they would see. Her district partner took the stage first, wearing a simple grey button-down shirt, black pants, and polished black shoes. Despite the audience's increasingly bored look, David was still smiling as he took a seat across from Malchus. "Almost done, right?" David offered, grinning.

"Just two of you left," Malchus confirmed. "It's been quite a night."

"I suppose it has," David agreed. "But I think Wes was right about saving the best for last. That seems to be how it worked out last year, after all."

Smart. It probably wasn't a bad idea to remind the audience that District Twelve, despite its rather lowly position at the end of the interviews, had won the previous Games. And they had the distinction of being the only district that already had a Quell Victor.

Malchus obviously hadn't forgotten that, either. "It certainly did. And twenty-five years ago, at that. Quite an achievement. Back-to-back victories would certainly be something to write home about, wouldn't you say?"

David nodded. "It certainly would. But to be honest, I'd rather not _write_ home. I'd rather go home and tell them myself after I win."

Malchus smiled warmly. "I'm sure you would. Who is it you miss the most from home, David?"

David thought for a moment. "I miss them all, of course. My family. My friends. But I think the person I miss the most is my grandma, Mary-Louise. I'm sure she's watching right now, along with the others." He waved to the cameras. "Hi, grandma! I can't wait to see you again."

Reynold leaned back in his chair. The boy was sweet; there was no doubt about that. But sweet didn't get tributes very far once the Games actually began. Sure, the audience loved a tribute with a good sense of humor, but that meant nothing if they weren't willing to do what had to be done once they were actually in the arena. And David simply didn't look like he had it in him.

Reynold shook his head. He'd been wrong before. Last year, he'd been convinced their scrawny little tributes would die in the bloodbath. But Kyra had proven him – and much of the Capitol – wrong. If _she_ could do that…

Then Orphelia certainly had a chance. Reynold smiled a little as his daughter took the stage, wearing a sea green dress and a silver necklace. She smiled sweetly as she took a seat across from Malchus. "Well, Orphelia, that must have been quite a wait backstage," Malchus chuckled. "But you're finally here."

Orphelia nodded. "Let's hope it was worth the wait – for all of us."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be. Now, I hear you've found yourself an ally."

Reynold leaned forward a little. None of the other tributes had mentioned having Orphelia as an ally. Then again, not all of them had decided to talk about their alliances. _An_ ally. Did that mean she'd only found one? That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Quality over quantity, after all.

"I have indeed, Malchus," Orphelia agreed. "Dinah, from District Three. I think it's safe to say we have some surprises in store once tomorrow comes."

Malchus grinned. "I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I." It was a lie, of course. Most of them didn't want to be there. Certainly Orphelia wasn't actually looking forward to the Games. But it was a lie the audience was accustomed to hearing by now. They didn't really care whether the tributes were actually _excited_ about the Games. They just wanted a good show, one way or another. As long as they got that, they didn't really seem to care whether they were being lied to.

Which could work in Orphelia's favor. "I'm certainly looking forward to seeing what the Gamemakers have in store for us," she continued. "Although I think the last Quarter Quell is going to be hard to top. They'll have to work hard to deliver something more impressive than a space station, but if there's anyone who's up to the challenge, it's our Gamemakers."

Flattery. Not the worst route to go. The audience applauded politely once Orphelia's time was up. After a few more words from Malchus, the screen went dark, and that was it. The interviews were over.

Just like that.

Reynold glanced over at his wife Lucia and their son, Quinton. The silence was tense, but what was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to reassure them that everything would be all right? That Orphelia would be coming home in a few weeks? In almost fifty years of the Games, District Twelve had been able to say that exactly twice. They only had two Victors. Did Orphelia really have what it would take to be the third?

They would find out in the morning. Or, at least, they would find out whether she had what it took to get through the bloodbath. To get _away_ from the bloodbath, really, was more likely. He had a hard time picturing his daughter charging headlong into a fight. And her ally hadn't seemed like the most likely to jump right in and start fighting, either.

But they would have to eventually. Eventually, the Games boiled down to a simple choice. Fight or die. Kill or be killed. There was no way around it, no clever trick that would allow Orphelia to avoid killing forever. Eventually, she would have to do what all the tributes had been put in the arena to do.

He just hoped she would have what it took.

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't."_


	32. Night Before the Games: Great Business

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Just a last reminder to vote in the sponsor poll before the next chapter.

* * *

 **Night Before the Games  
** **Great Business**

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

"You all did a great job."

Mae looked up from the plate of desserts the others were passing around. Jade seemed to think that the interviews had gone quite well. "Do you really think so?" she asked. "Or are you just trying to be positive?"

Jade chuckled. "A bit of both, probably. It went about as well as we could have expected, considering none of you scored particularly high. Maybe the audience will think it was part of the plan as long as you go out there tomorrow and prove you know what you're doing."

 _But I don't know what I'm doing._ She wanted to say it. She wanted to _scream_ it. She wasn't ready to be in the Games; none of them were. Even Justus and Genevieve were beginning to look nervous now that they were so close. Strangely enough, it was Consus who had already retired to his room, saying he needed to at least try to get some sleep.

Maybe he had the right idea. There wasn't anything more they were going to be able to accomplish tonight, and it wouldn't help tomorrow if they started the Games already exhausted. But Justus and Genevieve seemed to want to stay up a little longer. Maybe they were hoping for a little last-minute advice from their mentors. But what could they say that they hadn't already said? Surely if anything was truly important, they would have mentioned it by now.

"We do know what we're doing," Justus said firmly. "The plan hasn't changed."

Jade shrugged. "I didn't say it should. Just be prepared to adjust it if something happens at the start of the Games that you're not expecting."

"Like what?"

Jade shrugged. "Anything. You know what happened during the last Quell."

"The lights in the station were set to go on and off every three deaths," Genevieve piped up immediately. "So at the start of the Games, everything went dark, but then the lights came on after three deaths during the bloodbath."

"Exactly," Jasper agreed. "And during the 42nd Games, there were two separate groups of tributes on different sides of the arena. Half the tributes ended up separated from their allies right from the start."

"And during the Ninth Games, the cornucopia was on the other side of a mountain range, and the tributes had to figure out how to get to it," Stellar reminded them. "So the point is, _anything_ can happen. It's good to have a plan, but it's also good to be able to _adjust_ that plan if you need to. Understood?"

They all nodded. Mae took another bite of the cookie she'd been nibbling on. They made it sound so simple. Have a plan. Be ready to change it. Be prepared to make all sorts of adjustments in the heat of the moment, while tributes would probably be screaming and fighting and dying. Mae took a deep breath, trying to focus, but it was getting harder.

How could they all be so calm?

* * *

 **Leo Choi, 18  
** **District Two**

He hadn't expected to feel this calm.

Leo gave Barlen one more hug as the elevator stopped on the second floor. He could have taken the stairs, of course. After all, he only had to go up one floor. But Barlen was all the way up on the ninth floor, and Leo had figured he could probably use the company.

Barlen held him tight for a moment before finally letting go. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said quietly, a hint of fear finally making its way into his voice. Leo couldn't really blame him for that. He'd expected to be afraid himself. But now that it came down to it, he knew exactly what he was planning to do. He would protect his ally as long as he could. He would do his best to help. He'd never expected to make it out of the arena alive, but at least he could do something useful with his final days.

Just like Barlen had done with his few moments onstage. "I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier," Leo said, ruffling his ally's hair. "I think what you did for Klaudia was very kind. She was scared, and you tried to help. I'm sure she's grateful for that." He hadn't seen Klaudia after that. Chances were, she'd gone right back to her room. But he'd figured someone ought to tell Barlen that he'd done something good. Something right. Something decent and kind and human in the middle of something terrible.

Barlen managed a smile. "Thanks. I'm sure you would have done the same thing if you'd been onstage."

Probably. Chances are, that was _exactly_ what he would have done. What did that say about Barlen and his chances of making it out of the Games alive? If Leo was already resigned to his fate…

Leo stepped out of the elevator and watched the door close behind him. Chances were, they were both as good as dead. They probably had been the moment their names had been called at the reaping. But there were worse things. If he was going to die, he was going to make sure that he did it with dignity, with kindness, that he died like a human rather than a mindless animal performing for the Capitol's benefit.

Vester was waiting for him by the door when he arrived. He clapped Leo on the shoulder, and they headed inside. Annemae and Margo were in the kitchen along with Mortimer and Harriet. Etora and Darian had settled down on the couches with Tosh and Balthasar. "We can find somewhere else to talk if you prefer," Vester offered.

Leo shook his head. "Not much left to say, really. And I should probably get some sleep."

"If you can," Vester agreed. "The more alert you are in the morning, the better."

Right. Alert. So he would be able to see the blood more clearly. To hear the screams of the tributes around him. The thought made him sick.

 _Focus._ He could focus on trying to help Barlen for now. He could do that. He could…

Leo looked up as Vester laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm proud of you," his mentor said softly. There were tears in the old Victor's eyes as he pulled Leo into a hug.

Leo quickly returned the embrace, fighting back a lump in his throat. Dove always said the same thing whenever they had a particularly hard day at the hospital. She always wanted him to know that she was proud of him. Leo swallowed hard. "Thank you," he managed to get out. He wanted to say something more, but no more words came.

Maybe that was all he needed to say.

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18  
** **District Three**

There wasn't much left to say.

Dinah stirred her hot chocolate as the five of them – her, Merrik, and their three mentors – sat around the table. They had all been quiet since the interviews, particularly Merrik. She couldn't help feeling sorry for him, since he'd lost his only ally. But there wasn't really anything she could do about it. Even if she'd wanted to offer to let him join her and Orphelia, it probably wasn't fair to ask her ally to let Merrik join them. Not when they were this close to the Games.

Besides, now he'd caught the Gamemakers' attention, and she and Orphelia had been trying to do the exact opposite of that. She didn't want to do anything that might make her a target, as well. Surely Merrik understood that. He'd been willing to throw his own ally to the wolves in order to avoid getting himself in trouble. He was just as much at fault as Lena was, but he'd been willing to let her take all of the blame. Was that really the sort of ally she wanted?

No. No, he was on his own. And he understood that. Slowly, Merrik got up from the table and made his way to his room. Miriam followed, but, after a moment, she returned. "He just figured it would be best to get some sleep," she confirmed. "He's all right. Well, as all right as any of us can be."

Any of _us_. Dinah smiled a little. That helped a bit – knowing that the three others in the room right now had already been through the Games. They'd made it out of the arena, so maybe – just maybe – that meant she could do the same. Yes, Avery had had a rough time of it since the Games, but Miriam and Percival had always seemed to be doing all right.

Seemed. They always _seemed_ all right. Maybe she'd never wanted to look too closely. Maybe she hadn't really wanted to know what the Games had done to them. After all, whatever they'd been through, it was better than being dead. And right now, that was the only other alternative. Being a Victor was the only good option now. Everything else led to death.

Thirty-four roads led to death.

Dinah drummed her fingers on the table. "Any last words of advice?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work. The three Victors looked at each other, as if trying to decide on what words would be best.

It was Miriam who finally broke the silence. "Don't forget who's really in charge in there. If you're lucky, there will be times when it feels like you have it all under control, like you know exactly what you're doing. Don't forget that the Gamemakers can take that away in an instant. They're the ones with the real power. Not the Careers. Not any of the stronger alliances. Not even the audience, really. Yes, the Gamemakers want to keep the audience happy, but at the end of the day, the audience isn't that hard to please. The Gamemakers have the final say; never forget that."

Dinah nodded. Remembering that shouldn't be that hard. It was right there in the name: Game _makers_. As hard as she might fight, as much as she might want to get back to District Three, Miriam was right. Her life was in their hands.

And there was nothing she could do to change that.

* * *

 **Arabel Ford, 15  
** **District Four**

There was nothing she could do about her alliance now.

Arabel closed her eyes as she lay back in her bed, her head quickly sinking into the pillow. She'd tried to tell herself that Connor and Skyton knew what they were doing, that Klaudia certainly had _something_ to offer their alliance. But she'd completely broken down onstage. She'd made the kid from Nine look like a contender by comparison. She'd only scored a two in training. There was no way she was going to last long.

But how was she supposed to tell the others that? Arabel sighed. Maybe it was best to leave well enough alone. Making a scene would only cause tension within the alliance – tension the Gamemakers could use to tear their alliance apart. Maybe it was better to just go along with it for now. If she was right, she wouldn't have to worry about Klaudia for long. She just hoped the boys would have the sense not to get themselves killed trying to protect her.

If they did, of course, it would be their own fault. Arabel rolled over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. _She_ certainly wouldn't make the mistake of putting an ally's safety before hers. If the others did … well, that wasn't her problem. She had enough on her plate without having to worry about her allies' choices. They all did. Tributes didn't become Victors by worrying about keeping their allies alive.

Arabel rolled back the other way. Why couldn't she get to sleep? The bed had seemed so comfortable for the last few nights. But now…

It didn't really have anything to do with the bed. In some corner of her mind, she knew that. The bed was perfectly fine – and the last one she would be sleeping in for quite some time. No, that wasn't what was keeping her awake. It was the thought of what was going to happen in the morning.

How did _anyone_ manage to sleep the night before the Games? Well, maybe Careers. _Real_ Careers, not kids who had spent a few summers when they were younger playing around with makeshift weapons in their backyards. Maybe real Careers would be able to sleep before the Games.

Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe the Careers were really just as nervous as the rest of them. They had more on the line, really. Every tribute had the rest of their lives on the line, yes, but for a Career, their whole lives before the Games had been spent in preparation for that moment. When a Career lost, they didn't just lose their future; it meant that their past had been a waste, as well.

Arabel fought back a lump in her throat. Whatever happened in the morning, at least she was certain that the rest of her life hadn't been a waste. Her family, her friends, the people who knew her back in her district – they would all remember her. They would be proud of her whether or not she came home a Victor.

She just hoped she would be alive to see it.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

They would all be watching tomorrow.

Macauley grinned as she, Elliot, Sabine, and Oliver sat on the couches, enjoying a few last moments of relaxation. The last bit of peace and quiet they were likely to get for a while. Harakuise and Vashti were in the next room, probably deep in conversation. Retro had gone to bed a while ago, and Camden was seated at the table in the kitchen, trying to act like she wasn't eavesdropping on them.

Not that they were sharing any particularly juicy secrets. And certainly her own tribute, Retro, wasn't likely to be their first target. He and his allies weren't much of a threat. Besides, it was an unwritten rule in the Games that district partners usually didn't go after each other without good reason.

There were exceptions, of course. There were tributes for whom district loyalty meant nothing, or tributes who had simply gotten on each other's nerves during training. But Retro had been pleasant enough for the short time they'd interacted. She and the other Careers had no reason to specifically target him. If they happened to find each other during the Games, she certainly wouldn't go out of her way to keep him alive, but there was no reason to seek out a confrontation with him when there were plenty of other targets.

Plenty of more _impressive_ targets. Taking out a couple of younger boys might be enough to keep the audience's interest, but it certainly wouldn't do much in terms of proving that they were a capable Career alliance. No, they needed a better target for that. Justus had suggested a few options during training, but in the end, it would probably come down to which targets were the most accessible during the bloodbath. And at least some of that came down to pure dumb luck.

The rest, of course, depended on how the Gamemakers arranged things. They'd dropped some hints during the interviews that something was going on with District Two. Whether Malchus had been trying to convince the pack to include the pair of them, or whether he was trying to prod them into targeting them, Macauley wasn't sure, but it probably wouldn't be long before they found out.

They wouldn't have to wait long. That was good, at least. That was the worst part, now that it came down to it. At the moment, they had nothing to do but wait. They were as prepared as they could hope to be; the only thing left to do was get a good night's sleep. Yet none of them seemed to want to be the one to say so, to start heading off to bed. Somehow, waiting together was better than waiting alone.

Macauley shook the thought from her head. She couldn't start thinking that way – as if they were a team. That could only last so long. She and Elliot were allies. Nothing more. And their mentors … well, they wouldn't be with the two of them once they were actually in the arena. For the moment, they could give advice. Once they were in the Games, they could arrange sponsor gifts. But aside from that…

Aside from that, they were on their own. That was what she'd wanted for years, of course. The chance to prove herself. To show that she had what it took. That she could do this on her own. And now … now she was about to get that chance.

It was up to her to make the most of it.

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

She'd expected Lena to make the most of the offer.

Charu shook her head. "Are you sure you won't reconsider? I'm sure the others would be happy to have you. Consus and Wes and Aleyn are—"

Lena shook her head. "I'm sure they're all wonderful … but no. It's not a good idea for me, and it would be downright dangerous for you. After what happened during the private sessions, after what I said during the interviews, everyone will be expecting me to go it alone, and that's probably what's best for everyone involved."

"But…" She trailed off, unsure how that sentence should end. She couldn't imagine going into the arena alone. Most years, there were at least a few tributes who did, but she'd always considered it a bad idea. What would it be like to have no one to watch her back, no one to keep an eye out for trouble, no one to keep her company? Charu shook her head, glad she wasn't in Lena's shoes.

"She's right," Nicodemus agreed softly, laying a crooked hand on Lena's arm. "Besides, there are worse things than going into the Games alone. If you don't have any allies, you won't have to worry about keeping them alive – or about them turning on you when things get tough. Everything in the Games has its advantages and disadvantages, allies included."

Charu was about to object, but then it occurred to her. "You didn't have any allies, did you."

Nicodemus shook his head. "No, I didn't. Don't get me wrong; there were times when I wished I did. Times when I would have given anything for a little company. For a kind word or a friendly face. But there were also times when I was grateful … grateful that I wouldn't have to see that friendly face turn against me. That I wouldn't have to hear the last kind words someone would ever speak." Nicodemus smiled sadly. "There's no one right way to play the Games. There's no magic advice I can give you that will bring you through with your mind intact. Once you're in the Games, it's up to you. Duke and I will do our best to help you – both of you – but the hard truth is that sponsors aren't usually flocking to support District Six."

That was certainly true. "But my allies—"

"Might help you for a while," Duke agreed. "The fact that two of them are from Career districts might help you. But that won't last forever. Eventually, you'll need to give the sponsors a reason to support _you_ , not your allies."

A reason. Charu drummed her fingers on her legs. She didn't have a reason – not really. Certainly not a reason that was better than anyone else's. They all wanted to survive, of course. They all wanted to go home. But what was waiting at home for her? Everything she'd been trying to escape from. Her family. Her fiance. If she came home a Victor, of course, she wouldn't have to deal with any of that. But if she cut them out of her life, what did she have left?

What was left of _her_?

"You can worry about that later," Nicodemus offered. "For now, I would focus on trying to get some sleep. Get through tonight. Get through the bloodbath. Get out of there alive and away from the other tributes. Then you can worry about the rest."

The rest. The fact that she would have to kill in order to come home. The fact that her allies would have to die. Charu took a deep breath. Nicodemus was right. All of that could wait until later.

First, she had to make sure there _was_ a later.

* * *

 **Thomas Elliot, 18  
** **District Seven**

"We just have to make sure we get away from the bloodbath."

Thomas nodded along with his district partner, but it was getting harder and harder to focus on what she was saying. He was pretty sure he'd missed half of what she'd said. Half of what his _mentors_ had said. He was tired. Exhausted. But he already knew that as soon as he lay down in his bed, he wouldn't be able to get to sleep.

"Do you think the Careers will come after us?" Nephelle asked.

Casper shrugged. "No way to know, really. The Gamemakers, the audience, the folks back home – they all want to believe that everyone goes into the Games with a strategy. That everything is planned out perfectly. But the truth is, a lot of it comes down to plain, dumb luck. If you're unlucky enough to end up situated next to a Career around the cornucopia, then they might decide to come after you when they might have left you alone otherwise. Or maybe not. Maybe they'll see something they like closer to the cornucopia and decide that getting their choice weapon is more important than going after you first. There's really no way to know until you're actually in the arena."

Clearly, that wasn't the answer Nephelle had wanted. And Thomas had to admit, it wasn't the most helpful advice. But Casper was right; there was only so much they could plan out in advance. They had no idea what the arena was going to look like. No idea where might be a good place to run once they were in the Games. They would have to make a decision – and quickly – once they were actually in the arena.

"I guess we'll just wing it, then," Thomas offered, trying to smile. "What's the worst that could happen?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but no one laughed. Not even him. The worst that could happen, of course, was that in less than twenty-four hours, he could be dead. Nephelle or Aven could be dead, or both, or all three of them. There were a _lot_ of things that could happen, and none of them were good. Even the scenarios where they made it out alive weren't good, because eventually they would have to fight. Even if they ran straight away from the bloodbath, they would eventually be forced into a situation where they _couldn't_ run. They would have to fight. And then they would either have to kill, or they would be killed. Or both.

Thomas took a deep breath. There were no good ways for this to end. Even if he managed to beat the odds, even if he somehow made it through the bloodbath, through the rest of the Games, and out of the arena, there were no happy endings. There was no version of the story where everything turned out all right. But as long as he made it out alive, that would be good enough for him.

It would have to be.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

They'd just _had_ to mention Willa.

Mariska pressed the tip of her fork into the table, digging a little deeper into the wood. "Look, it could have been worse," Lander shrugged. "At least you didn't break down crying."

Mariska rolled her eyes. "Not exactly a high bar you've set there."

"Trust me, compared to some of the other tributes, you came out of those interviews looking like quite a contender. You're not a nurse, you can remember who your allies are without having to write it on your arm, you don't have a blood disorder…"

Mariska smirked. "No, I just have an ally who does."

"Didn't say you came out looking perfect," Lander pointed out. "But if the worst thing the Capitol can say about you is that you're a bit stingy when it comes to sharing personal feelings, I think you're doing okay."

Mariska glanced down at her fork. It hadn't been _about_ her feelings. It had been about Willa. She hadn't deserved to be in the Games in the first place. To use her death to try to make the audience sympathize with her was…

What? Wrong? Everything about the Games was wrong. But as bad as the situation was, she simply hadn't been able to bring herself to talk about her friend. Not in front of all those people. They had no right to know about what she had felt for Willa. They didn't _deserve_ to know how it had felt to watch her die.

Because there was no way they could have understood. They sat there, watching the Games every year, and somehow they still didn't understand. None of them had ever lost someone they loved to the Games. None of them had ever had to watch someone dear to them fighting for their lives in the arena, struggling to stay alive from day to day, scavenging for food, killing other children in order to survive. They didn't understand. They couldn't. If they did, then…

Then what? The Games would still go on. Because the Games weren't really about the audience. Keeping the audience happy and entertained was important to the Capitol, of course, but it wasn't the point of the Games. It never had been. The point of the Games was to keep the districts in line. And for fifty years, they had done that job as well as could be expected.

Not perfectly, perhaps. There had been some resistance to the Games. Maybe there always would be. But not enough to stop them. Not by a long shot. Ever since the rebellion nine years ago, most tributes had meekly gone along with what was expected of them, and those who hadn't had been snuffed out quickly and efficiently. The Games didn't work perfectly, perhaps, but they worked well enough. Well enough to accomplish their goal.

 _Didn't say you came out looking perfect_ , Lander had said. Maybe that was the point. Maybe she didn't have to play the Games perfectly. Maybe there was no such thing. She just had to play well enough to survive. Well enough to make it back to District Eight. Back to…

Back to what?

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

This time, Basil finally hugged him back.

Barlen grinned up at his friend. No, that wasn't quite right. What was the word again? _Mentor_. That was it. Basil was his mentor. Every other time Barlen had tried to hug him, he'd simply stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do. At least, Barlen was pretty sure he had. But this time, Basil's arms wrapped around him, pulling him a little closer. "You can do this," the older boy whispered softly.

"You really think so?" Barlen asked as the two of them finally let go. Was Basil just trying to be kind? Optimistic? Was he trying to give him hope? Or did Basil really think that he had a chance of making it out alive?

Basil dodged the question. "Just remember to keep track of what's happening. Keep track of how many tributes there are. Keep track of where you are in the arena. Write down any landmarks that might help you recognize where you are."

Barlen nodded, taking a piece of pie from the table and settling down on one of the couches. "I will. And Leo will be there to help me."

"Don't count on that."

"What?"

"Leo's a good kid, but you can't count on him being there to help you forever. Eventually, one way or another, it'll just be you. You have to be ready to play the Games by yourself when that happens."

Barlen took another bite of pie. He'd never liked playing by himself. At home, he had his sister. He had his friends. And in the arena, he would have Leo.

Until he didn't.

Barlen poked his fork into his pie. Maybe if something happened to Leo, he would be able to find someone else. Maybe. Or maybe Basil was right. Maybe he would have to go it alone. If that happened, would he really know what to do? Would he be able to keep track of everything well enough to survive?

"I'm not ready," Barlen said softly, more to himself than to his mentor.

Basil sat down next to Barlen and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Neither was I."

Barlen couldn't help a laugh. "You?"

"Me. When I went into the Games, I didn't have _any_ allies. I had no idea what I was doing. But I found a good place to hide for a while, and I worked it out. And you can do that, too. Once you're in the Games, there's no rush. Not after the start, at least. Get away from the bloodbath and find somewhere to stay for a while. With this many tributes, it'll take a bit longer for the Gamemakers to decide you're worth the trouble of trying to force you to fight. So lay low for a while – but not forever. Eventually, you'll have to fight."

"But Leo doesn't want to."

Basil nodded. "He doesn't want to _now_. But once you're in the Games—"

"He still won't want to fight. He's not going to; he said so." Barlen hesitated. "At least, I think he did."

Basil shook his head. "I hope he changes his mind, for his sake. But if he doesn't, that just means you'll have to be even more prepared. You'll have to be ready to do what he can't."

Barlen swallowed hard. Basil wanted him to _kill_. Worse, Basil was convinced he _could_ kill. Barlen dug his fork a little deeper into his pie.

He wished he was as certain as Basil was.

* * *

 **Connor Sawyer, 15  
** **District Ten**

He wished he was more certain about his alliance.

Connor sighed as he made his way back to the kitchen. He and Skyton had decided to go to bed a while ago, but, as hard as he tried, he hadn't been able to get to sleep. So he might as well eat something. It was one of the last chances he'd have before the Games, after all.

"Trouble sleeping?"

Glenn's voice caught him off guard, and Connor took a step back from the table. "Sorry," Glenn apologized, turning the lights up a little. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," Connor insisted, his voice trembling a little too much for his liking. "I just … Yeah, trouble sleeping."

Glenn nodded. "You're certainly aren't the first one. I was a nervous wreck before my own Games. But I made it out all right."

Connor looked away. Glenn had made it out by hiding the entire Games. He hadn't fought. Hadn't killed. But that had been years ago. Decades. Since then, no tribute had made it through the Games without blood on their hands; the Gamemakers made sure of that.

Still, none of that was Glenn's fault. He was doing his best to be positive, to help the rest of them keep their spirits up. Even after all these years, even after losing so many tributes, he still hadn't given up.

"What about the others?" Connor asked. "Tess and Presley. Were they scared?"

"More than they'd like to admit, I'm sure," Glenn chuckled. "The only ones who aren't scared are the ones who are a bit too confident, a bit too certain that they know what they're doing. Admitting that you _don't_ know, that you _aren't_ entirely sure … That's a good thing, Connor. And it might end up saving your life."

Connor nodded. That made sense. It didn't make things any _better_ , but it made sense. "I just wish we'd had more time," he said at last. "Do you ever think maybe … maybe the Career districts have the right idea?"

Glenn tilted his head curiously. "Would it have made a difference?"

"What do you mean?"

"This year, for you, would it have made a difference? Even if we _had_ a Career system, even if our training was on par with Districts One or Two, no one would have volunteered to take your place. No one _could_ have. So the only way a Career system would have helped you is if _you_ had been one of the tributes training. Do you really think you would have?"

Connor hesitated. He'd never really given the matter much thought. The idea of a Career system in District Ten was so far-fetched that he'd never really considered whether or not he would have taken part in it. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe if I grew up in a district where it was normal … expected…"

Maybe. Or maybe not. If they'd had a Career system, would he simply have dismissed the Games anyway, taken it for granted that he would never have to participate in them because someone would take his place? That was the position so many of the Career-district tributes had found themselves in this year, after all. That was what had happened to Arabel. Chances were, that was what would have happened to him. "I don't know," he repeated.

But he _did_ know. Or, at least, he suspected. He probably wouldn't have trained – not much, anyway. Certainly not enough to truly be prepared. He had other responsibilities, after all. School. Chores. When would he have had _time_ to train? Even if he'd wanted to – which he probably wouldn't have – he probably wouldn't have had the chance.

It probably wouldn't have made a difference at all.

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

Nothing he could do now would make a difference.

Wes rolled over in his bed, trying not to think about what he could have done differently. Anything that might have given him a better chance. Was there some station he should have paid more attention to during training? Something he could have done better during his private session? Something he should have said during the interviews? He'd done his best, of course – or, at least, he'd thought he had – but was his best really going to be good enough?

Either way, there was nothing he could do about it now. In the morning, he would be going into the Games, and there was nothing he could do to stop that. No extra training he could put in. No chance to make an impression on the audience – not until the Games started. And the sort of impression they would want to see then … Did he really have it in him to do that? Was he really ready to kill?

Maybe there was no such thing as 'ready' – at least when it came to killing another tribute. Maybe it was just something that happened when the moment was right. He couldn't imagine going out of his way to seek out a fight, but if someone attacked him … well, the choice would be between killing and letting himself be killed. Maybe then. Maybe then he would be able to do it.

Wes stared up at the ceiling. He certainly hoped so. Because that was the only way he was going to make it home. It had been decades since a tribute had made it through the Games without killing, and the Gamemakers certainly weren't going to let something like that happen during a Quarter Quell. Not with thirty-five tributes in the arena. That was an embarrassment the Capitol certainly wouldn't stand for. No, if he wanted to go home, he _had_ to kill.

But he didn't have to kill right away. Wes closed his eyes. He and his allies could wait a little while. There were plenty of tributes who would be ready to rush in at the start of the Games. That would be enough to keep the audience occupied and entertained while he and his allies got their bearings and planned their next move. Maybe later on in the Games, it would be easier. Maybe once the other tributes had blood on their hands…

Then what? Would knowing that his opponent had already killed make it easier to strike at them? Maybe. Or maybe not. There was no way to know for sure until it actually happened, and that only made it worse. He had no way of knowing – not right now, at least – whether he would actually be able to go through with killing another tribute. Another _person_. If he knew for certain that he could, then…

Wes sighed. Then what? Would he really do anything differently if he was certain that he would be able to kill? Probably not. Because even if he was certain he _could_ , he still wouldn't _want_ to. Chances were, he would still put it off as long as he could.

But he wouldn't be able to put it off forever.

* * *

 **David Abadi, 14  
** **District Twelve**

He wouldn't be able to put it off forever.

David glanced up at Brennan and Kyra, seated on a couch near his. Orphelia had gone off to bed a while ago, but he didn't want to. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner morning would seem to come. And he didn't _want_ it to.

But he wouldn't be able to avoid going to sleep for long. He could already feel his eyelids starting to droop a little. "You should get some sleep if you can," Kyra said at last. "Morning will be here before you know it."

David shook his head. "That's the problem."

Brennan got up and made his way over to where David was sitting. "I know," he said softly, laying his good hand on David's shoulder as he sat down beside him. "Believe me, I know. But staying awake all night isn't going to do you any good in the arena."

David looked up. "Did you get any sleep the night before your Games?"

"Not much," Brennan admitted. "I don't think anyone gets as much sleep as they'd _like_. But it's good to be as alert as you can. You never know what the Gamemakers are going to have in store for the bloodbath, particularly during a Quarter Quell."

"I wish it wasn't," David muttered. "Everyone keeps saying that everything's going to be different, that the Gamemakers will have something special planned. I wish I'd gotten reaped during a normal year. Then maybe—"

"No, you don't," Kyra interrupted. "Yeah, Quells are rough, but a normal year isn't exactly a walk in the park, either."

"I didn't mean—"

Kyra nodded. "I know. I just meant … it wouldn't make much of a difference. The Gamemakers are _always_ trying to do things differently. Trying to mix things up and keep them exciting. That happens every year, not just during a Quell. And if anything, the twist this year might play in your favor. Tributes are usually up against a full-fledged Career pack. You won't have to worry about that."

Brennan leaned back on the couch. "No, instead you'll have to worry about a Career pack that's desperate to prove itself. They'll be looking for anything they can do to win the audience's favor."

"Does that mean they'll go after the more threatening groups first?" David asked hopefully. If the Careers and the stronger outer-district packs went after each other, that might keep him and his allies safe for a while. Sure, he'd gotten a seven, but the Careers didn't really have any other reason to consider him or his allies a threat.

"Maybe," Brennan answered vaguely. "But the tributes the pack is _planning_ to go after don't always end up being the ones they find themselves in a position to attack in the arena. I'm sure they'd rather take out a more impressive target, but if they happen to find you and the choice is between you or no one, they'll go after you without a second thought." He sighed. "Sorry. I'm sure that's not very comforting."

"Not really," David agreed. "But it's the truth. And I guess it's better to know that now than to find out tomorrow once we're in the arena. So … stay away from the Career pack?"

Brennan chuckled. "Like that's not what you were planning to do, anyway." He ruffled David's hair. "I'm sure you could have figured that one out on your own. A lot of the Games is going to be like that. Trusting your gut is going to help you more than any advice I could give you right now." He shook his head.

"So you might as well try to get some sleep."

* * *

 **Kyra Presper, 13  
** **District Twelve Mentor**

It was a while longer before David finally took Brennan's advice.

Kyra watched as the boy finally headed for his room. He seemed so young, even though he was technically a year older than her. He had no idea what was coming – not really. Sure, he knew what he would be expected to do, but knowing it in theory and really _understanding_ it were two completely different things.

"Do you think he'll be all right?" Kyra asked softly. "Once he's in the arena, I mean."

Brennan shook his head. "There's really no way to tell beforehand who will be able to handle it and who … well, won't. Take you, for example. How many people in the Capitol or back in District Twelve would have thought _you_ had what it took to make it out of the arena?"

Kyra hesitated. "Did you?"

"Yes," Brennan answered without hesitation. "But having what it takes and actually doing it are two different things. A lot of the tributes in the arena have what it takes, but only one of them actually comes out alive. It happened to be you. And it happened to be me. Sometimes it's because a certain tribute is stronger, or faster, or more skilled. And sometimes, it's just because we're luckier. Because we happened to be in the right place at the right time, and someone else wasn't so lucky."

Kyra nodded. She didn't _want_ to believe that, but it was true. It was easier – more comforting – to imagine that certain tributes were simply more suited to the Games. That she'd survived – and that Brennan had survived – because they'd been willing to do what had to be done. But Brennan was right; there were so many tributes who had been _willing_ to do what it took to get out alive.

Now they were gone. They were dead, and she had survived. Not because she'd deserved it – not really. But because … because that was just how things were. One way or another, that was how things had turned out.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Kyra glanced up, surprised. She'd heard that allies sometimes wanted to get together and make some last-minute plans the night before the Games, but both Orphelia and David had already gone to bed. Surely if their allies had wanted to talk, they would have done so immediately after the interviews.

Brennan, however, simply smiled and opened the door. On the other side of the door was Mags, with a few of the other mentors in tow. She recognized Felix from District One, along with Toshiro from District Two. Toshiro smirked when he saw her expression. "Don't worry. The Careers aren't here to kidnap you. We just want to invite you down to our little hangout."

"The Careers' hangout?" Kyra asked, confused.

Mags shook her head. "It's for all the Victors. I just make a point of personally inviting the first-time mentors, and two of the three happen to be Careers."

That made sense. Career districts had more Victors than were usually needed to mentor. District One had six Victors; Two had seven. And the last time they would have needed to send more than two mentors was the last Quarter Quell.

Brennan smiled warmly, patting Kyra on the shoulder. "Glad I finally have someone for you to invite, Mags. Felix, Tosh, you're in for a treat." Brennan and Mags led the rest of them to the elevator, and Mags pressed a button with a zero on it. Kyra glanced up at Brennan, surprised that she'd never noticed it. District One stayed on the first floor, District Two on the second, and so on. She'd never realized there was a floor below that.

"There would've been no reason for you to notice," Brennan assured her, as if he knew what she'd been thinking. "Caught me by surprise, too." The elevator door opened, and Mags led them around a corner.

There, at the end of the short hallway, was a large room. On one side, there was a bar with an assortment of stools. Chairs and couches were spread across the room, many of them facing several large screens on the walls. The words "Alistern's Presidential Lounge" were painted in bright red letter's over the doorway. "Who's Alistern?" Kyra asked.

"Our old bartender," Mags answered. "He retired a while ago, but when we decided this place needed a name, it seemed natural to name it after him. And as for _Presidential_ …" As the five of them entered, she gestured to the man behind the bar.

Kyra took a step back when she saw him. A stocky, balding man in his fifties, with steely grey eyes that quickly found the newcomers. To her surprise, Vice President Brand gave a little wave, as if encouraging them to come over. The other Victors in the room – which seemed to be all of them who were mentoring – didn't seem to think it the least bit odd that the Vice President of Panem was tending the bar.

Beside him was a young woman in her twenties, quickly mixing drinks and grinning from ear to ear. Her skin was darker than her father's, but up close, she shared his piercing gaze. She whispered something to the older man, who clapped her on the back before heading over to say hello. He shook Felix's hand first, and then Tosh's. Then he held out his hand to her. Kyra hesitated a second before shaking it. "Vice President. I—"

He chuckled a little. "Not in here. Here, I'm just Eldred, regardless of what it says above the door."

"So this is what you do during the Games?" Tosh asked with a grin. "The Vice President of Panem is down here with the Victors, serving drinks?"

Eldred smiled. "When I can. And when I can't be here, Ellery is." He gestured behind the counter, and his daughter gave a little wave before returning to pouring a pair of drinks for Lander and Carolina.

Kyra glanced around. In one corner, a few of the Careers were rolling dice. A few of the older Victors had a card game going at one of the shorter tables situated between several comfortable couches. Nicodemus sat with a few of the younger Victors, watching two of them play chess.

Almost immediately, Felix and Tosh headed over to join the group of Careers. Kyra lingered by Brennan's side, watching. Taking it all in. Eldred clapped Brennan on the shoulder. "Well, I'll get out of your hair. Holler if you need anything."

"Will do," Brennan assured him. He gave Kyra's shoulder a squeeze. "Are you all right?"

Kyra nodded. "I think so. It's just a bit … much."

Brennan chuckled. "It takes some getting used to. The games were Eldred's idea. Thought we might want something to focus on besides drinking and … well, besides the Games." He smiled. "So he gave us games to distract us from the Games, if that makes sense."

It did. At least a little. But one thing didn't. "But why is he here? Shouldn't he be … well, somewhere else? _Doing_ something else?"

"Something a bit more presidential, you mean?"

"Well … yes." It was no secret that President Grisom was stepping down soon, and that Vice President Brand had been named as his replacement. What was he doing _here_?

"Maybe he should," Brennan agreed. "And I suspect we'll see less of him once he takes on his new job, but … well, you could say this is how he _got_ that job in the first place. He was President Grisom's secretary after President Snow died, and Silas … President Grisom assigned him here to … keep an eye on us, I suppose. Make sure that nothing like the 41st Games was going to happen again." He shook his head. "I guess he's worked his way up since then, but for a few weeks a year, this is where you can find him."

Just then, a younger Victor with a peg leg made his way over to them. "Well, Brennan, are you going to talk her ear off all night, or are you going to let her have a drink?"

Brennan shook his head, smiling. "Kyra, this is Duke. Don't listen to a word he says."

"Right back at you." Duke gave Brennan's shoulder a punch, then smiled down at Kyra. "Drinking is optional. _Relaxing_ is mandatory. Want to see a card trick?"

Kyra glanced up at Brennan, who shrugged as Duke returned to where he'd been sitting beside Nicodemus. "He means well, and he _does_ do a mean card trick. But hold onto anything you don't want him to swipe."

Kyra smirked. She'd lived on the streets for years before the Games. "I know what I'm doing."

"So does he." Brennan ruffled her hair fondly. "Have fun."

Fun. That wasn't a word she had expected anyone to use during the Games. Not a Victor, at least. But the others _did_ seem to be having fun. Kyra hurried over to join Duke, who was expertly shuffling a deck of cards. "Just in time," Duke called. "Kyra, this is Nicodemus, and the two jokers playing chess are Basil and Oliver." He held up an ace of spades, showing it to the rest of the group before tucking it back into the deck.

"Now watch closely."

* * *

" _Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't. He that's coming must be provided for: and you shall put this night's great business into my dispatch; which shall to all our nights and days to come give solely sovereign sway and masterdom."_


	33. The Handle Toward My Hand

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Just a few quick things. First, the results of the sponsor poll are up on the blog. Congrats to Ronan, who came in first with 9 votes, and to Mae, Leo, Charu, and Shanali, who tied for second place with 8 votes. Provided they survive the bloodbath, each of them will receive a sponsor gift at some point during the Games. If they die here, that gift will pass to an ally. If their allies are toast, as well, it passes to a district partner. If all of their district partners are toast ... um ... they're really unlucky? I don't think I've ever gotten down to that point before.

Second, also up on the blog is an arena map, which will be updated regularly after I post a chapter. This is as much for my reference as it is for anything else. You may notice some places on the map have little pictures, while others are blank. Details will be filled in as the arena is explored. Deaths, kills, and any shifts in alliances will also be updated on the blog.

Third, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which alliance(s) is/are your favorite(s). This isn't likely to have an effect on anything, other than letting me know who might need a little more "screen time," but I'm curious anyway and wanted to get some idea before alliances start dwindling a bit. Mild spoilers regarding an alliance that forms in this chapter, so read the chapter first.

Lastly, a quick plug for my new SYOT, a second installment in my X-Men/Hunger Games crossover universe. See my profile for more details.

And that's it. Here we go ... and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, tributes, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven ... or to hell.

* * *

 **Bloodbath  
** **The Handle Toward my Hand**

* * *

 **Ellery Brand, 23  
** **Bartender**

She was still getting used to this.

Ellery wiped down another table as the last few Victors began to stagger their way out of the bar. Most of them would be back soon enough, but right now they had to go get their tributes ready for the Games. Duke was one of the last to leave, clapping her on the back as he passed. "See ya later, kiddo," he called.

Ellery chuckled. Kiddo. As if he was older than her. Actually, he was several years younger, but he'd made it quite clear that in his opinion, nineteen years in District Six and almost two weeks in the Games made him considerably older than her twenty-three years in the Capitol.

And maybe there was some truth to that. Even before her father had been hand-picked by the president to succeed him, her life in the Capitol hadn't exactly been one of hardship. She'd always had everything she could need, and most things she could want. She couldn't argue with that fact, and usually she didn't even try. That wasn't what these Victors needed to hear.

Most of the time, they didn't need to hear _anything_. Most times, what they really needed was someone who would listen to them. And that was something she could provide easily enough. She'd become a good listener in the last few years. Her father had left her alone down here more and more often during the Games as his duties as the Vice President had begun to take up more and more of his time. And now…

Now, he was upstairs somewhere, putting a few final touches on something or other. Or maybe just getting a few hours of sleep. He'd slipped out a few hours ago, as had most of the Victors. Most of them would want to get at least a little rest before the Games.

Because they weren't likely to get much during the Games; that was certain. Especially not during a Quell. She wasn't old enough to remember the last one, but she'd heard plenty of stories, both from the Victors who had been old enough to mentor during it and from Capitolites who remembered watching it. It had certainly been an event worth watching.

Not that the other Games weren't, of course. They had her on the edge of her seat almost every year. But there was a certain excitement, a certain _energy_ , that came with a Quell. The fact that there was an extra twist, the effort the Gamemakers would be putting in to make sure that everything in the arena was just right. She was looking forward to it, despite herself.

It was an odd balance – spending time with the Victors while still enjoying the Games. There was a different atmosphere down here than there was in the rest of the Capitol. The Victors weren't focused on trying to guess what would happen next or rooting for their favorites; they were trying desperately to keep their tributes alive as long as they could. Some of them were eager to bring home another Victor. Others were weary after years of losing tributes. They had a different perspective than the majority of the Capitol.

Maybe that was why President Grisom had assigned her father here eight years ago. To get a different perspective. But it had certainly blossomed into more than that. Running the bar had become a family affair. The others weren't as invested in it as she was, perhaps, but the rest of her family would always make an appearance or two at some point during the Games. It was good for the Victors to see them. Good for them to know that it wasn't just her and her father running things, that the rest of them would be there when things got really tough.

Ellery stretched a little as she continued cleaning the rest of the bar. It would be a little while before things got busy again. After saying a last goodbye to their tributes, most of the Victors would be in and out, trying to secure a few last-minute agreements with sponsors before the Games actually began. But they would all be here by the time it started. For the first few hours of the Games, there wasn't usually any sponsor activity. They wanted to see who would survive the bloodbath first, after all.

Ellery settled onto one of the couches for a short nap. It was Lander who woke her with a shake a few hours later. "Hey, barkeep, time to open up."

Ellery chuckled as she got to her feet. Anywhere else, he could probably get in trouble for calling the Vice President's daughter 'barkeep.' But not here. Here, the Victors felt comfortable enough to say things that most of them wouldn't dare utter elsewhere. That was one of the most important unspoken rules. Yes, they knew people were listening. Yes, they never slipped up and said anything _too_ rebellious. But comments about how unfair the Games were … well, those were commonplace, and it wasn't uncommon to hear a rude remark – or several hundred – about the Capitol or Capitolites in general. Nothing that could really be considered too far out of line, but still.

Ellery took her place behind the bar as the other Victors began to file in. The screens showed Malchus talking to an excited crowd about the previous night's festivities and how amazing things were certain to be this year. Most of the Victors weren't even bothering to watch yet. It was the same sort of thing the host said every year. This was going to be the most amazing Games ever … until the next year, and the next, and the next.

Finally, there were a few shots of the tributes in a hovercraft, and the noise level immediately dropped. A few moments later, the camera showed a few of the tributes putting on their new outfits. Ellery saw a few of the Victors nod, satisfied, when they saw what the tributes were wearing. Skin-tight black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. Black lightweight boots and socks. "Probably somewhere dark this year, then," Percival observed before taking another sip of his drink.

Ellery nodded. He was probably right. The outfits his year had been rather dark, as well. Come to think of it, both his and Miriam's arenas had been rather dark. Miriam's had been a series of catacombs, while Percival's had been the inside of a large opera house. Black had been a good color for camouflage those years, too.

"Great," Violet muttered, rolling her eyes. It was hard to blame her for that, though. All four of District Eleven's victories had come in outdoor arenas. A field, a seaside village, a playground, a vineyard. And a darker arena usually meant something contained. A space station. A hospital. An anthill.

 _Usually._ There were outdoor possibilities that could be darker, as well. The only way to tell was to wait and see. And they wouldn't have to wait long. The screen flashed images of the tributes climbing onto their pedestals, waiting. Waiting.

Then the camera switched to an outdoor view, and Ellery grinned. It was a castle – a _big_ castle with stone walls and five towers reaching towards the sky. The camera zoomed in through a window, then down a hallway, then another, to a room with a large chair – a throne, really – in the center. Beneath the throne was an assortment of weapons and supplies. Apparently, the throne was supposed to serve as this year's cornucopia. But something was different. Something wasn't quite…

As soon as the tributes started to appear, she realized it. The throne was _big_ – bigger than an average chair. In fact, compared to the tributes, it seemed as if it had been made for a giant. So did everything in the room – everything except the weapons. The tributes surrounded the throne in a circle, a good distance away. Doors led out of the room, one in the middle of each of the five walls. Candles lined the walls, providing the only light in the room.

But it wasn't the doors or the candles that had caught most of the tributes' attention. On the floor in front of each of them was a dagger, lying in a sheath. Just far enough away that they wouldn't be able to reach them without stepping off their pedestals.

 _Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight._

Leo, who was in front of one of the doors, whispered something to Barlen, who was directly to his left. Ellery couldn't help a smile. That was quite a stroke of luck. Or maybe placing them together had been intentional on the Gamemakers' part. Either way, Barlen nodded, acknowledging whatever advice Leo had given him. Probably just telling him to stay put until the numbers finished counting down.

To Barlen's left, Genevieve grinned at Macauley, who was positioned next to her. Macauley nodded towards Barlen, then towards the boy on her left, David. Genevieve hesitated for a moment, but then nodded in agreement. David was too busy looking for his allies, who were clear on the other side of the room, probably barely visible in the dim light.

Beside him, Ronan was also searching for his allies. Finally, he found them – quite a few places to his left, positioned near one of the other doors. He caught their attention and tapped himself on the chest, then pointed at them, probably trying to indicate that he would go to them, rather than the other way around. Next to him, Arabel had already located her allies on the other side of the room, but she was eyeing the dagger on the ground.

 _Fifty. Forty-nine. Forty-eight._

To Arabel's left, Darian was glancing around the room, taking everything in. The oversized candles on the wall seemed to have caught his attention, even if everyone else was ignoring them. Was there something different about them? Ellery peered closer, but, as far as she could tell, they – and the candle holders – were simply larger than usual. Just like everything else in the room.

Beside him, Merrik was getting ready to run; that much was obvious. There was a door almost directly behind him; it would be silly not to. He had no allies – not anymore. Best to get away alive while he could. Next to him, Dinah seemed to be deciding whether to run to Orphelia, who was on the other side of the room, or wait for her ally to come to her. To her left, Emmett was eyeing the dagger on the ground, his hands opening and closing, as if waiting for his chance to grab it.

To Emmett's left, Charu had located the rest of her allies. Consus and Aleyn were directly to her left, and Wes was only a few spots beyond them. Charu gestured towards the door behind them, and the rest of them nodded in agreement. They could worry about supplies later. Right now, it was more important to stay alive.

 _Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight._

To Aleyn's left, Aven had spotted her allies, directly across the room. She leaned forward a little, maybe getting ready to sprint towards them. That made sense, after all. There were two of them. One of her. Easier for her to try to reach them than the other way around.

To her left, Kilian and Shanali smiled at each other. Ronan had already indicated that _he_ would be the one coming to them, which put considerably less pressure on them. To their left, Wes was nodding to his allies. Ellery glanced at Violet, who didn't seem at all relieved by the fact that District Eleven's tributes had been positioned together. That could be good or bad, after all.

Especially because right next to Wes was Elliot, one of the Careers. Not one of the more _experienced_ Careers, perhaps, but that could mean that he would be even more likely to go after them in an attempt to prove himself. Or maybe he would be more likely to go after a weaker target. Ti was directly to his left, eyeing the Career nervously as he glanced over at Retro, who was two spots to his left.

Between the two younger boys, Skyton was motioning to his allies. Klaudia and Connor were nearby, but Arabel was all the way across the room. Connor shrugged, and his intention was clear. Three of them on one side. Arabel on the other. It was her job to meet up with them, not the other way around.

 _Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight._

Retro glanced over at Ti, nervously eyeing Elliot. Elliot, for his part, didn't seem particularly interested in the younger boys. Maybe the fact that he and Retro were from the same district counted for something. Maybe they simply weren't all that tempting a target. Beside Retro, Klaudia looked like she was about to faint. Still, she hadn't yet, and there was less than half a minute left in the countdown.

Beside her, Margo was nodding to Annemae, who was two spots to her left. Between them, Orphelia glanced nervously back and forth from one girl to the other, maybe wondering if they were planning to go after her. Beside Annemae, Connor was preparing to run towards his nearest allies, but not without a glance over at Arabel, all the way on the other side of the room. Beside Connor, Vashti was smirking, nodding to Mariska, who was positioned near one of the other doors.

 _Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen._

Beside Vashti, Etora was grinning. To her left, Lena glanced nervously from Etora to Justus, who was on her other side. Justus, for his part, seemed more interested in the pair from Seven, who were directly to his left. Thomas, directly to his left, had apparently noticed, and motioned to Nephelle to watch out. Beside Nephelle, Mae was glancing around this way and that, as if trying to take everything in at once.

To Mae's left, Mariska was watching Vashti intently – maybe trying to figure out why he was smiling. Suddenly, she nodded, and a hint of a smile crossed her face.

 _Ten. Nine. Eight._

"I think they've figured it out," Lander muttered, glancing over at Harakuise.

Harkauise nodded. "I think so."

Ellery didn't have time to ask what 'it' was.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

 _Three. Two. One._

As soon as the gong sounded, Genevieve lunged for the dagger in front of her. As soon as she tried to draw it from its sheath, however, she gasped. The handle of the dagger came loose in her hand. No. No, that wasn't quite right. There _was_ no rest of the dagger. There was nothing inside the sheath.

It had been a trick.

Genevieve grunted in frustration as she lunged at the boy from Nine. That had been the plan Macauley had been trying to communicate. They had two easy targets on either side. It should have been a piece of cake. Now…

Just as she was about to reach the little boy, however, the older boy from Two stepped in the way. "Barlen, run!" he called. Genevieve shrugged, ignoring the fact that she was just as unarmed as Leo was, and charged anyway. Her first punch connected squarely with his jaw.

She braced herself for the returning blow, but it didn't come. Leo simply held up his arms, blocking blow after blow, backing up as she advanced. She lunged. He sidestepped. She lunged again. He turned, backing up—

Right into Mae, who had grabbed one of the candlesticks from the wall. The candle fell to the ground as the metal candle holder connected squarely with Leo's head. Leo staggered forward, right into Genevieve's next punch. A kick in the groin brought him to the floor, and Mae swung the candle holder again.

"Barlen, _run_!" Leo called just as the metal connected with his head. Genevieve turned in time to see that the boy was still watching. Still staring, horrified, as Mae swung again. "That's enough," Genevieve muttered, closing her hands around Leo's throat. She yanked his head off the ground, then slammed it down once. Twice. Blood began to pool around the body as he finally went still. Finally, Genevieve glanced up and saw that the boy had, in fact, run this time. Mae cocked her head a little.

"I think you got him."

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

What was he supposed to do now?

Elliot stared at the handle in his hand. There was no dagger. What was he supposed to do with a handle? He'd been thinking about going after one of the tributes from Eleven, or maybe the boy from Nine to his left. But without a weapon…

Without a weapon, he couldn't chance it. _Maybe_ he would be able to take out one of the other tributes, but it would take time. Time someone else could use to grab a real weapon, and then he would really be in a pickle. No, getting his hands on a _real_ weapon was more important now than proving he could win a fight without one.

Elliot rushed to the center of the room. There didn't seem to be much competition in getting there. Most of the tributes had tried to grab their daggers, but it seemed everyone else had come across the same predicament he had. What were the Gamemakers trying to do? Why bother putting anything there at all if it was going to turn out to be useless?

Elliot reached the throne quickly, still amazed by how large it was. How large _everything_ in the room was. He could easily stand under the throne with plenty of room to spare.

 _Stop it._ He needed a weapon. Once the bloodbath was over, he could worry about getting a good look around. Quickly, he grabbed the nearest weapon he could find – a short sword. Then he glanced around. It was hard to see properly in the dim light, especially when so many tributes were rushing this way or that.

Which way was he supposed to go?

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18  
** **District Four**

Was this supposed to be some sort of joke?

Emmett chuckled a little, staring at the handle in his hand. Immediately, he turned and ran out the nearest door. Sure, he could have stayed. Tried to grab a weapon from closer to the center of the room. But it wouldn't take long for the other tributes to realize their mistake, and then they would all be doing the same thing. It was better to get away while he could.

He could worry about the rest later. There would be plenty of time. Time when things weren't quite so chaotic, when he could focus on who he would really _need_ to kill. There had been tributes near him he could probably have handled, of course. Either of the tributes from Three. The girl from Six. But the girl had allies – allies who would have outnumbered him. And the others … well, they just didn't seem worth his time.

Not right now.

He could wait. There would be plenty of time later to make an impression. A tribute from District Four picking up a kill during the bloodbath wouldn't really be anything particularly remarkable. Neither was a tribute from Four who decided to turn and run the other way. Neither of those things was a deal-breaker for the sponsors – not at this stage in the game. What would really matter was what he did later.

Right now, he just wanted to get as far away as possible.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

Grabbing the dagger had been a mistake.

Nephelle took a step back as she realized. The weapon was useless. She had no way to defend herself. And the boy from One was charging.

Charging at _Thomas._ Not at her. She could help. But would the two of them really be able to take on a Career? Surely Thomas would have the sense to run.

Nephelle turned and took off through the nearest door, a bit to her left. "Come on!" she called as she finally made it through the doorway. It was only then that she realized.

Thomas hadn't followed.

She glanced back through the door, searching for him. He was trading blows with the boy from One. Neither of them was armed, so they'd resorted to using their fists. He didn't seem to be doing too badly, either. Maybe with her help…

No.

She didn't have time to run back now. By the time she got there, some of the other Careers might join them, and then they would be outnumbered. No, her best chance was to run – run, and hope Thomas would be able to make it out alive.

It was too late for her to help him.

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

They'd both grabbed completely useless weapons.

Etora couldn't help a laugh as she realized what had happened. The younger girl from Six, however, wasn't laughing. She was staring at the dagger handle in her hand, frozen, confused. Not for long – just long enough for Etora to act.

Immediately, she lunged at the girl's legs, tackling her to the floor. The girl's head hit the floor with a crack, blood already flowing from her head as she stared up, dazed. "Wait," she pleaded, but Etora didn't listen. She grabbed the sheath from the dagger – the dagger that didn't exist – and pressed it against the girl's throat. Harder. Harder. The girl's arms thrashed for a moment, but only for a moment. Before long, her body went limp.

Etora nodded crisply, getting to her feet. A little ways away, Justus was trading blows with the boy from Seven. Etora turned and raced towards the center of the room. Justus could handle himself – at least long enough for her to grab a real weapon. Which she would need if she was planning on helping him, anyway. She'd been able to catch the girl from Six off guard. She couldn't count on the same thing happening again.

But once was enough for now. That was what the Gamemakers had been counting on, surely, when they'd positioned the two of them so close together. The girl from Six had tried to cheat, tried to give the other tributes an unfair advantage. But her tricks wouldn't help her now. Now, there was no cheating. There were no shortcuts.

And that gave her an advantage.

* * *

 **David Abadi, 14  
** **District Twelve**

"Wait! I'm coming!"

David gasped for breath as he raced towards the center of the room. Retro and Ti did, in fact, seem to be waiting for him on the other side. All he had to do was get to them. And maybe grab a weapon or two along the way. A _real_ weapon. And maybe some supplies. Maybe. If he had time before—

Just as he reached the center, however, something struck him from behind. David turned around, gasping, as the girl from Five reached him. The handle she had thrown clattered uselessly to the floor, but she had distracted him long enough for him to slow down a little.

David turned to run, but the girl was gaining on him. He was just reaching down for a dagger – a real dagger – at his feet when she tackled him. His hand reached for the dagger, but she pinned his arm to the ground before he could reach it. "Nice try," she admitted, reaching for the dagger herself.

David closed his eyes, but he could still feel the dagger as it plunged into his chest. Pain coursed through his body as he gasped for air. Another blow. He could feel blood. Warm and wet. But not was warm as it had been a moment ago. Everything was growing cold.

So cold.

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

He couldn't quite believe it.

Retro stared as Macauley drew her dagger out of David's chest. He hadn't thought she would really do it. There was a part of him that had believed – or at least _hoped_ – that his district partners would do their best to avoid him and his allies. Elliot certainly hadn't seemed interested in coming after him, and Vashti … well, Retro wasn't sure where he'd gone, but he certainly hadn't attacked.

Macauley, on the other hand, seemed to be looking around for her next target. Retro felt a hand close around his. "Let's _go_ ," Ti insisted, dragging Retro towards the door. The door they'd been eyeing during the countdown.

"We should have…" Retro started, but even he wasn't sure how that sentence was going to end. Should they have tried to reach David instead of expecting him to come to them? Would that have done any good? Or would that have meant that _all_ of them would have been killed, instead of just David?

Just David.

"Too late for that now," Ti snapped, but there were tears in his eyes as the two of them ran towards the door. Retro gripped Ti's hand tightly as the pair of them ran. He'd already lost one ally.

He had no intention of losing another.

* * *

 **Thomas Elliot, 18  
** **District Seven**

One of his allies had already left him.

Thomas ducked beneath another blow as the boy from One advanced again. What had Nephelle been thinking? They couldn't just run – not when Aven was still on the other side of the room, trying to reach them. If Nephelle had stayed, they would have had a chance together. Now he would have to wait until Aven reached him, instead.

Thomas fought the urge to glance behind him to see if she was coming. He couldn't afford to take his eyes off his opponent. The boy's fist almost connected with his head again. Thomas ducked, aiming for the boy's stomach, but he stepped aside just in time. Each of them had managed to land a few blows, but without a weapon…

Without a weapon, they were certainly on more equal footing than they would have been _with_ weapons. Maybe he was lucky there hadn't been any daggers, after all. The Career was certainly better equipped to use one. But in a contest of sheer strength and agility … well, the Career probably still had an edge, but he was managing to hold his own.

Suddenly, Thomas saw a grin on the Career's face. He had just enough time to wonder what was so amusing before something pierced through his chest. Thomas gasped and looked down to see a short sword piercing through his chest. "Took you long enough," the boy from One muttered as the older boy from Five drew the weapon out.

Thomas sank to his knees, glancing behind him at last. Aven was still near the other side of the room, slowly making her way around the outer edges. She wasn't going to reach him in time, after all. The boy behind him grabbed his head, and the sword came towards his throat.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

 **Orphelia Mykonos, 17  
** **District Twelve**

There were too many of them.

Orphelia clenched her fists, well aware of the irony that _two_ was apparently too many of them. The older girls from Two had charged at her almost immediately after the gong had sounded, pausing only a moment when they'd realized they didn't, in fact, have any weapons. Orphelia ran towards the center of the room. Her only chance was to try to make it to Dinah before—

She hadn't even made it halfway to the center before one of the girls caught her. One of them – she couldn't even tell which – slammed into her from behind. Orphelia fell to the ground, and immediately they were on top of her. Punching. Kicking. Orphelia raised her hands, trying to shield her face, but something smashed into her arm. A candle holder, she realized as her vision started to go dark.

That was why it had taken them a little longer to catch her. They'd taken a couple of the candle holders off the wall. Orphelia rolled a little to the side, but that wasn't enough. She could feel the blood flowing from her head. "Dinah!" she called out, even though she knew it wouldn't do any good. "Help! Please!"

But it was already too late.

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18  
** **District Three**

It was too late to help her.

Dinah swallowed hard, fighting back tears as she watched. She was too far away to do anything. Still, she took a few steps forward, ready to step in and try. Maybe she would get lucky.

Suddenly, a hand closed around her wrist. "Don't," Merrik said quietly. "There's nothing you can do."

She knew that, of course. She'd known it ever since the two girls had caught up with Orphelia. But she didn't want to believe it. Orphelia was the only ally she had. If she died now…

"Let's go," Merrik insisted quietly as Orphelia's body went still. "It won't take them long to decide to come after us if we stay."

 _Us?_

Dinah looked down at her district partner. Did he mean what she thought he meant? "Look, your ally's gone," he said softly. "So's mine. Well, she _was_ my ally, anyway, before…"

Before last night. But maybe what had happened last night didn't matter now. Lena was dead. Orphelia was dead. But she and Merrik were still alive.

Dinah took one last look at the two Career girls, who were gathering up supplies. Then she turned and followed Merrik out the nearest door. "I … I'm sorry about Lena," she said at last.

"I'm sorry about Orphelia," Merrik agreed. "But not sorry enough that I want to stay and join them. We have to move faster."

He was right.

* * *

 **Arabel Ford, 15  
** **District Four**

She wouldn't get a better chance than this.

Arabel charged at the younger boy from Two, who seemed startled that she would decide to attack him. But why not? He probably didn't have any more actual training than she did. And he was unarmed, just like her. She wouldn't get a better chance.

Besides, it wasn't as if she was about to charge across the room to try to get to her allies. If they knew what was good for them, they were already running. She could always catch up later. It wasn't as if they were going to wait around for her.

The boy from Two stepped to the side, shaking his head. "Not a good idea," he growled, lunging at her with the handle of a dagger in his hand. Arabel smirked. What did he think he was going to do with that? She'd made the same mistake, grabbing at a weapon that wasn't actually there. But apparently she'd had more sense than him. She knew it wasn't going to do her any good.

She lunged again, striking at the boy's chest. He dodged, backing up towards the wall. She followed, lunging again, and again he backed up. Farther. Farther. He had almost backed up all the way to the wall when he ducked beneath her next blow, whirling around to give her a shove towards the wall himself. Arabel stumbled, trying to regain her balance as her back slammed into the stone wall.

The dagger handle found her jaw, and she could taste blood in her mouth, but that motion brought him within her arm's reach. She lashed out, and her fist connected squarely with his neck. He staggered backwards, backing up just enough to let her see his district partner, who was running towards the pair of them, a hatchet in one hand and a knife in the other.

Arabel turned to try to run, but the boy had recovered his wits, charging forward and pinning her against the wall. Arabel let out a grunt she slammed into the wall again, the boy's shoulder pinning her chest. Arabel's hands closed around his throat, but the other girl was faster. The cleaver dug into her wrist, and Arabel let go, screaming in pain, staring down at her hand, which was barely still attached to the arm.

"Thanks," the boy muttered as the younger girl handed him the knife.

* * *

 **Connor Sawyer, 15  
** **District Ten**

He didn't see the killing blow.

Connor forced himself to look away as Arabel's screams echoed through the room. "Connor!" Skyton shouted. "We have to _go_!"

He was right. But Arabel…

He had assumed that if any of them would have a chance of making it across the room to the others, it would have been her. But she hadn't even tried. She had charged after the boy from Two without a second thought. Connor swallowed hard. He had thought about the same thing, before realizing that their weapons were useless. The boy from Five – the one with the bleeding disorder – had been standing right beside him. He would've needed only one blow to make an easy kill.

But without a weapon, their best chance was to run. He, Skyton, and Klaudia had realized that – if it had even occurred to the others to fight. But Arabel … had she ever really had a chance of reaching them?

Connor shook the thought from his head as he followed his allies through the door. At least he still had them. He'd questioned Skyton's choice to include Klaudia in their alliance, questioned whether or not he and Arabel should strike out on their own. Now he was glad he hadn't.

They were all he had left.

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

She could hear the screams from the next room.

Charu's stomach churned as she, Wes, Consus, and Aleyn kept running. They'd gotten lucky so far. Being positioned so close to each other at the start couldn't be a coincidence. For whatever reason, the Gamemakers had wanted them to get away.

Unless…

Unless the reason the Gamemakers had clumped them all together was because they'd expected them to fight. There were four of them, after all. They could have picked a target – pretty much any target who wasn't a Career – and overwhelmed them by sheer force of numbers. But it hadn't even occurred to her – not until now.

And apparently, it hadn't occurred to any of the others, either. They'd nearly reached the end of the next room before they even paused to look around. When they finally did, it was Consus who said what they were all thinking. "What the hell?"

Clothes lined the walls of the room – clothes that looked like they had been designed for a giant. In one corner was a large wardrobe, large enough to fit the clothes inside. Wes hurried over to it, grinning, jumping up to reach the handle. The door swung open.

Just then, a shout came from the other room. "Hurry!" Wes called to the others. "Let's hide in here!"

Consus raised an eyebrow. "Serious?"

Aleyn shrugged. "Why not?"

One more scream was enough to decide for them. The four of them hurried into the wardrobe, closing the door almost all the way. It wasn't even a tight fit. Charu smiled.

No one would look for them in here.

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

"This way!"

Ronan grinned as he caught up to Shanali and Kilian at the doorway they'd been positioned closest to. A bag of supplies was slung over his back, and he'd managed to grab an axe, a dagger, and a mace. The boy from Five had taken a swing at him, but barely managed to slice his arm a little before he'd noticed that his ally needed help and decided that was more important than taking on someone who was already heavily armed.

"Did anyone else go this way?" Ronan asked as he followed his allies through the door.

"Just the group of four – Wes and his bunch," Shanali answered. "I don't think they're going to attack us if we head the same way. Certainly not without any weapons."

Ronan nodded. She was probably right. But that wasn't why he'd been asking. He'd been wondering if anyone had gone this way who _they_ might be able to attack. But it didn't seem fair to ask Shanali and Kilian to go after their district partner. Certainly not this early in the Games. Besides, Wes' group of allies included one of _his_ district partners, and that wasn't a confrontation he wanted right now, either.

No, there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, they had what they needed. They had supplies. They had weapons. And they were alive. Ronan handed the dagger to Shanali and the axe to Kilian. He kept the mace for himself, glancing around as they entered the room.

Things were going pretty well so far.

* * *

 **Aven Faraday, 16  
** **District Seven**

Nothing was going right so far.

Aven gripped the bag of supplies she'd grabbed from the center of the room. It was the least she could do after being too far away to help Thomas. He was dead, but Nephelle was still out there somewhere. Just through the door in front of her. "Nephelle!" she called, hoping her voice wouldn't attract the attention of any other tributes. She wasn't sure exactly where Nephelle had gone after going through this door.

As soon as she stepped into the room, however, something struck her in the head. Aven gave a shout as the bag was ripped from her grasp. "Hey!" she called, but a second tribute struck her from behind. Something metal cracked against her skull, and Aven toppled to the floor.

It was only then that she could see them – the girl from Eight and the boy from Five. The boy was holding her bag, the girl a candle holder. The boy slung the bag over his shoulder as the girl knelt down beside Aven, taking hold of her throat. "I'll make it quick," she promised, bringing the candle holder down one more time.

That was the last thing she saw.

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

"Nice work."

Vashti looked down at the girl Mariska had killed. Officially, the Gamemakers would probably credit it as a joint kill. He had struck the first blow, after all, and taken the girl's bag. But it was Mariska who had done the actual killing.

Not that it really mattered _who_ had done it. But Mariska was less likely to get hurt in the process. If the girl's fingernails had so much as scratched him deeply enough…

 _Stop it._ That hadn't happened. And nothing had happened at the start of the Games, either. He had to admit, he'd had his doubts when he'd seen what appeared to be a dagger for each of them at the start of the Games. All it would take was one lucky stroke from any nearby tribute.

But that had been too simply. Too easy. Too quick. The Gamemakers didn't want things to be quick – especially not during a Quell. He'd suspected that the daggers were fake. Or, at the very least, he'd _hoped_ they were fake. And he had been right.

He had been _lucky._ He couldn't count on that luck lasting forever. He had to find some way to protect himself.

And for right now, that meant getting as far away from the other tributes as possible. He and Mariska hurried past a large cauldron in the center of the room and towards a door on the opposite side. When they stepped through and got a good look around, a hint of a smile flickered on his face.

Maybe he had a chance, after all.

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14  
** **District Two**

They'd managed to prove themselves, after all.

Darian glanced around at the rest of the Career pack as the sound of the last cannon echoed through the room. Seven cannons. Seven deaths. And they had all survived, with nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises between them. Justus had apparently taken a few punches, and the girl from Four had managed a blow to Darian's neck that might be sore for a little while, but all in all, they'd emerged practically unscathed.

Justus looked around, admiring their handiwork. "Elliot and I took out the boy from Seven," he began. "How'd everyone else do?"

"Etora and I got one of the girls from Four," Darian blurted out. Justus hadn't been looking at him in particular, and he might not have even thought twice about the girl from Four if she hadn't come after him first. But there was no reason they needed to know that.

"And I took care of the troublemaker from Six," Etora added, earning an appreciative whistle from Macauley.

" _Nice_ ," Macauley beamed. " _Two_ kills during the bloodbath – not bad for our youngest Career. I got the boy from Twelve. And Genevieve and Mae got Leo."

Darian's stomach churned a little, and Genevieve avoided his gaze. "I was going for the kid from Nine, but he stepped in the way…"

Etora clapped her on the shoulder. "No need to apologize. Leo wasn't one of us, and he made his choice."

Darian said nothing. Leo _had_ made his choice. And he'd made his. He'd chosen to join the Careers. If he hadn't, would he still be here? Or would they have come after him just as easily as they'd gone after Leo? Would he be the one they were sitting around talking about?"

"That's five cannons accounted for," Justus concluded, glancing around the room. "Who got the girl from Twelve? Did anyone see?"

"I think it was the others from Two," Elliot offered. "Annemae and Margo."

"Makes sense," Justus agreed. "That's it for the bodies, so whoever the seventh cannon belonged to, they must've made it out of the room." He glanced at the supplies. "All right, then. Eat something if you're hungry, pack a bag with a little extra food, and find a weapon or two that you like. There are seven of us, so we can afford to leave a guard or two. Any volunteers?"

Elliot's hand shot up immediately, as if he were an eager student in class. "I got you covered, boss."

"Want some company?" Darian offered after a moment.

Elliot clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure."

Justus nodded. "All right, then. That's decided. Let's get to it." He smiled for the cameras.

"The Games aren't over yet."

* * *

 **Brennan Aldaine  
** **District Twelve Mentor**

It was already over.

Brennan wrapped an arm around Kyra, who was staring at the nearest screen, still not quite believing what she'd seen. "They're both gone." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Just like that. They did everything right. Everything we said. And they just … they never had a chance."

Brennan pulled her in closer, and she buried her face in his shoulder. For a while, neither of them said anything. There wasn't much to say. She was right about what David and Orphelia had done. Neither of them had made a mistake. There wasn't really anything either of them could have done differently. Yes, they'd both been trying to reach their allies from across the room, but if they'd run a different direction, chances were good that they still would have been caught. Sometimes there was no right answer. No strategy that would have worked. They'd simply gotten unlucky enough to end up near a Career who had no trouble targeting them.

"So what now?" Kyra asked at last. "What do we … do?"

Brennan motioned to Ellery, who poured him another drink. "We drink a toast. We watch the rest of the Games. We try to relax, try to forget, and probably fail most of the time. And then we hope for something better to happen next year."

Something better. He knew how hollow the words sounded. There was nothing 'better' in the Games – not unless one of their tributes came out alive, which had happened exactly twice. Whether David and Orphelia died now or later didn't really matter, in the end. At the end of the Games, the tributes who came in second were just as dead as those who had died in the bloodbath. He raised his glass, and Kyra followed suit.

Across the room, Brennan saw Harakuise do the same. An apology, maybe? That was more than he was likely to get out of Mortimer and Harriet, at least. But Etora had been right about what she'd told Genevieve. There was no point, really, in apologizing. Tributes killing each other was what the Games were about. Still, he appreciated the thought. Brennan gave Harakuise a nod, and the three of them drank.

Maybe next year would be better.

* * *

" _Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee."_


	34. Done Quickly

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Submissions for What You Fight Against are open until the end of the day on Sunday. There's still plenty of room, so get those tributes in.

* * *

 **Day One  
** **Done Quickly**

* * *

 **Felix Stout  
** **District One Mentor**

"Not bad at all."

Felix leaned back in his chair, grinning at Jade and Jasper. It wasn't unusual for the Career pack to make it out of the bloodbath without any losses, but he hadn't expected such an impressive showing _this_ year. Even with below-average Careers – Careers who had scored low even compared to the stronger outer-district tributes – they'd managed to rack up five kills without anything more than a few scratches to show for it.

"Don't get too cocky," Jade cautioned, but he couldn't help a smile even as he said it. "There are still twenty-eight tributes left."

"And four of them are ours," Felix agreed, flashing a smile at Stellar. "Your boy made it out, too. And his allies. Not too shabby, either."

Stellar shook her head. "They're hiding in a closet."

"Only until Ronan and his allies leave," Felix reasoned. "They know better than to start a fight with three armed tributes when they've got nothing besides a bunch of clothes. That's smart."

"If they were smart, they would have tried to grab something from the bloodbath. Most of the Careers were occupied."

Felix shrugged. "They had no way of knowing that would happen. Better safe than sorry."

Stellar shook her head. "That's not how any of us won our Games."

"True. But we had training. We were _ready_. Consus is going to have to ease into it, but I wouldn't worry." Felix smiled. "He'll get there."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Instinct," Felix answered vaguely. If he was being honest, he was just trying to be kind. The boy and his allies had gotten lucky, or maybe the Gamemakers had something special planned for them. Probably the latter. Ending up clumped together like that on one side of the bloodbath was too much to be a coincidence. Just like it was too much of a coincidence that the younger girl from Six had ended up between two Careers. Usually, the Gamemakers didn't have to interfere to get rid of troublesome tributes. The other tributes did a reasonably good job of that themselves.

"At least the _real_ Career pack isn't heading in his direction," Stellar mumbled.

She was right. Justus had apparently made a decision about which way to go – through the door to the left of the one Consus and his allies had gone through. Which didn't mean that they wouldn't _eventually_ end up finding him, but it did mean there were tributes that were closer.

"I just hope they're smart enough to keep track of where they are," observed Oliver, who had apparently been listening. "Rooms like that, no natural light, stone wall all around – it wouldn't be hard to lose track of where they are, or where they've been."

Felix nodded. The boy had a point – and plenty of experience. Oliver's own arena had been a mostly underground giant prairie dog town. Last year had been a hospital, and the year before that a giant anthill. Apparently, disorienting arenas were in fashion.

"At least the rooms don't all look alike," Sabine offered hopefully. "A wardrobe, a giant cauldron, an armory."

Felix smiled. Of course the armory had caught her attention. Vashti and Mariska had found their way into the room, filled mostly with giant suits of armor. But a few of the smaller pieces might prove to be useful to them. And the two of them had picked up a kill, as had Margo and Annemae. All in all, the Career districts seemed to be doing quite well.

He just hoped it would stay that way.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

She just hoped it would be enough.

Mariska watched as Vashti circled the room again, almost smiling as he took in the sight. Suits of armor lined the walls, and rows of giant suits spread across the whole room. None of _those_ were going to be particularly useful, of course; they were far too large. But scattered on the floor were smaller bits of armor. Arm guards, shin guards, gloves, and even a few helmets. It was as if the Gamemakers had planned for them to find this place.

Maybe they had. Maybe that was why they'd been positioned near the door that had led to this room. Or maybe there were several of these rooms throughout the arena. The _castle_. It was fairly obvious now even from the inside that that was what the arena was. The throne. The suits of armor. The stony walls. Why everything was so _large_ , she wasn't really sure. Maybe it was simply to give them more room to spread out.

Or maybe it was something else. There had been giant-sized arenas before. An anthill. A prairie dog town. Even a whole giant town. That had been years ago, but they still showed footage of it, and it always made the tributes look so … so _small._ So insignificant.

Maybe that was the point – to remind them that even the most prepared, even the toughest of them were truly out of their league. Mariska scoffed at the thought. As if they needed to be constantly reminded that they were at the Gamemakers' mercy. Or maybe it was really to remind the audience, or to remind the districts.

"Something funny?" Vashti asked, circling back to her with an armful of supplies.

Mariska shook her head. "Just thinking," she offered, trying to cover her slip. "Quite a coincidence – us finding this place."

Vashti shrugged. "There are probably several of these rooms. If I was designing a castle – or an arena, for that matter – I certainly wouldn't want to put all the armor in one place. Which is probably why there aren't any weapons here, either. There's probably another room with those somewhere."

"That would be a nice one to find," Mariska pointed out. "Wonder who got that lucky."

"No way of knowing," Vashti admitted. "And maybe no one yet. But we can't count on that. And the Careers obviously have weapons, as well as anyone else who took them from the bloodbath."

"Not the girl we ran into," Mariksa observed. While Vashti had been searching the room, she'd made quick work of looking through the girl's pack. _Their_ pack now. There were a few packs of crackers, a water bottle, and several strips of bandages. No weapons, but it was still a good start. And with the armor they'd found…

Vashti dumped the supplies at his feet and began strapping some of the armor on. "There's plenty for you, too," he offered.

Mariska hesitated. She didn't need it as much as he did, but if there was plenty extra, she didn't really have a good reason to say no. She quickly strapped on a pair of shin guards. They were surprisingly light, as were the armguards and the breastplate. A pair of gloves topped off the ensemble, but Mariska hesitated when she picked up the helmet. "Are we going to be able to see if we put these on?"

"Probably not as well," Vashti conceded. "So I'd keep the visor up until something happens."

Mariska shook her head, tucking the helmet into the pack. "I think I'll just keep it in here for now."

Vashti shrugged. "Suit yourself." He put his own helmet on – a simple metal dome with a chin guard and a visor. He slipped the visor down, testing his vision. After a moment, he apparently decided against it, and lifted the visor again. "If something happens, I can always put it down again, I suppose."

Mariska nodded. The important thing was that they had at least _some_ protection. They had some food, some water, and some defense if any of the other tributes happened to find them. Not that it was likely to do them any good against the _Careers_ , but it might deter some of the weaker tributes.

Tributes like the girl they'd killed.

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18  
** **District Two**

They had killed a girl.

Margo shook her head, trying to focus as she and Mae explored the room they'd found themselves in. All around them was an assortment of what looked to be large gold coins, illuminated by the candlelight coming from the walls. It was a treasure room, but that wasn't likely to do them much good. Unless they could use it to buy sponsor gifts.

Margo chuckled a little at the thought. Mae looked up, confused. "Something funny?"

"No, I was just thinking … all this treasure, and there's not really anything we can do with it. Back in District Two, this would be enough to buy anything we wanted. Here…"

"Here, it's just a pile of useless stuff," Mae agreed. "Maybe there's something buried under all the gold."

The two of them started digging, but there didn't seem to be much that would be useful. Not that they were in desperate need of supplies. After they'd killed the girl from Twelve, they'd grabbed a pair of backpacks from the bloodbath. Inside were a handful of bandages, a bag of nuts, a pair of water bottles, an extra pair of socks, some rope, and some dried meat. Enough to keep them going for a while. Still, it would be nice to find _something_ in one of the piles in front of them.

After digging for a while, they finally found a few things that might be useful. They'd each taken a few weapons from the bloodbath; between the two of them, they had several knives, a spear, a sickle, and a pair of daggers. In the pile, they found a jewel-studded dagger, a scepter, and a goblet. Mae raised an eyebrow when she saw the goblet, but Margo shrugged and tucked it inside her bag anyway. Maybe it would be useful if they wanted to boil water or something.

Mae's expression, however, was still one of confusion. "What?" Margo asked. "It's not like it's that heavy, anyway."

Mae shook her head. "No, it's not that. Do you hear something?"

Margo listened for a moment. She _did_ hear something. Almost a kind of squawking sound, coming from nearby. Some kind of bird outside a window, maybe? Were they that close to the outside of the castle? They had no way of knowing, really, without going to check it out.

"Maybe we should go see what it is," Mae said, but buried in that suggestion was a question. She was wondering whether they _should_ go see what it was, or whether it was some sort of trap. It wasn't unheard of for the Gamemakers to lure tributes to their deaths with something that seemed relatively harmless, only for it to turn on them.

But surely it was a bit early in the Games for that. And they'd been doing quite well so far. They'd picked up a kill together in the bloodbath before making it out with supplies; that was more than most tributes had done. Sure, they hadn't gone after the _Careers_ , but the audience hadn't really been expecting them to do that, had they? Despite their relatively high training scores, there were only two of them. Considering that, they were doing quite well.

"Let's go have a look," Margo agreed, and the pair of them headed in the direction of the sound. The next room was dark. Almost _completely_ dark. There were no candles. No windows. The only light came from the other rooms, filtering through the doors.

But that was enough to see the cages. Large, metal bird cages. And inside them were some equally large birds. Their feathers were black, their beaks long and sharp. Crows? Ravens? They seemed a bit large to be either.

Mae took a step closer to one of the birds, which backed away in its cage, squawking loudly. "Maybe we shouldn't stay here," Margo suggested, her voice shaking a little more than she would have liked. "Those sounds are bound to attract attention. And we don't want that."

But a smile was growing on Mae's face. She turned to Margo, grinning.

"Maybe we do."

* * *

 **Kilian Romane, 17  
** **District Eleven**

Maybe they'd made a mistake, after all.

Kilian glanced at Shanali and Ronan as the three of them headed into the next room. There didn't seem to be anyone in the room with all the clothes. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone since they'd run from the bloodbath. What if that had been a mistake? Should they have stayed and fought? Maybe. Or maybe they should simply have kept better track of where the other groups had gone. It wouldn't take much for them to overpower another tribute or two if they managed to find someone. And maybe that would make up for accomplishing nothing in the bloodbath.

Kilian shook the thought from his head. They'd made it out alive. They had weapons. They had some supplies. That wasn't nothing. Sure, none of them had made a kill, but would the audience really be expecting them to? It wasn't as if they were Careers, after all.

Then again, most of the Careers weren't really Careers. But from the sound of the cannons, they'd certainly been _acting_ like a Career pack. There had been seven cannons at the start of the Games. That was a fifth of the tributes already dead. Just like that.

Kilian shuddered. At least Wes had made it out. His group had run through the door shortly before Ronan had caught up to them. Where they might have gone after that, Kilian wasn't sure. He hoped they hadn't gone the same way the three of them were going now. If they had – if they ended up having to fight – Kilian wasn't sure what he would do. He wasn't particularly close to Wes. They hadn't spent much time together on the train or during training. But they were still from the same district. That counted for something.

Kilian held his breath as they made their way into the next room. It didn't look like anyone was there. It took him a moment to figure out what _was_ there. At first, it looked like a series of wooden pillars, but then he looked up. The pillars were really the legs of several large beds, which rose high above their heads. Ladders led to the tops of the beds, barely visible from down below.

Kilian turned to Ronan, about to suggest that maybe they could climb up and see if there was anything useful. Ronan, however, was eyeing a staircase on the other side of the room. "I wonder if that leads out," he muttered.

"Out?" Shanali asked.

"Out of the building," Ronan clarified. "If we can get outside – or at least to the top of the building – we might get a better feel for the arena. What do you think?"

Shanali shrugged. "Worth a shot. Kilian?"

"Why not?" He could think of several good reasons why not. The Gamemakers didn't take too kindly to tributes who tried to make their way out of confined arenas. But surely they would be able to tell from what Ronan had said that they weren't interested in escaping the arena – just being able to tell where they were inside of it.

The three of them made their way to the other side of the room and started up the staircase – a staircase that was far too large for them. Each step reached to his waist, and the steps wound their way around in circles up the tower. Up, up, up. Higher and higher. Kilian's limbs ached by the time they finally reached the top, pushing their way through a door in the ceiling. Slowly, the three of them helped each other out into the open air, and Kilian's breath caught in his throat once he looked up.

It was a castle. He'd guessed that much from the throne room that had served as the cornucopia, but he hadn't realized just how huge the castle was. They were atop one of five towers that reached towards the sky. The castle was surrounded by a moat, and most of the land around it seemed to be a rocky wasteland. In the distance was a forest, but that was probably there more for scenery than to actually serve as a shelter. There was no way to reach it – not without swimming the moat, and that wasn't the most appealing prospect.

"Looks like we're the only ones who've found our way up here," Ronan observed. The other towers seemed rather barren; if there were tributes who had made their way to the tops, they were doing a better job of staying hidden.

"Think this is a good place for lunch?" Shanali asked casually, as if they had their choice of places to settle down. Maybe they did. But they certainly couldn't have picked a better view.

They broke out the supplies Ronan had managed to swipe from the bloodbath. Inside were several generous portions of bread, meat, and cheese, as well as four bottles of water and a coil of rope. "Nice," Kilian whistled, grinning as Ronan passed around some of the food. This would be enough to keep them going for a while. And then… Later. He could worry about that later.

Right now, he was hungry.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15  
** **District Four**

She was starting to get hungry.

Aleyn glanced around at Wes, Charu, and Consus as they crept out of the closet. Ronan and the pair from Eleven had passed them by without a second thought, which was just fine by her. She certainly didn't want to go after her district partner, and she was sure Wes felt the same. Eventually, of course, they would have to go after someone. But it didn't have to be right this instant. And it didn't have to be someone they knew.

"Where do you think we should go?" Charu asked in a whisper, as if someone might come bursting through the door to the room at any moment. Which _was_ a possibility, of course, but if the Careers were going to come this way, wouldn't they have done it by now?

"Maybe we should just stay here," Consus offered, his voice low.

Charu raised an eyebrow. "Here?"

"Why not? We have somewhere to hide if the Careers come. We're close to the cornucopia, so we might be able to sneak in and grab something if we get desperate. I don't think we're likely to find a better spot."

Wes shook his head. "I think we should keep moving. There are bound to be more supplies somewhere, and what happens if the Careers who might be at the cornucopia get restless? The nearest rooms will be the first place they'll look."

Charu nodded, then turned to Aleyn. "What do you think?"

Aleyn hesitated. She wanted to stay put. The closet had seemed safe, at least. Hidden. That was what she really wanted to do. She wanted to hide. She wanted to crawl up somewhere safe and stay there until the Games were over.

But…

But that wouldn't protect them forever. And it wouldn't help them find food. "Maybe we should have one more look around before leaving," she suggested. "We can see if any of these clothes are a bit smaller, and keep them for later. Or maybe we can make some sort of bags out of the larger ones."

Consus nodded. "Exactly. Maybe there's no food here, but at least there's _something_ we can use. We can always keep going later."

Later. That certainly sounded good. Consus seemed to be making the assumption, though, that there would _be_ a later. If they didn't do something…

Aleyn shook the thought from her head. They _had_ done something. They had gotten out of the bloodbath alive and unscathed – no small feat considering there were four of them. Maybe they hadn't gotten any kills, but they hadn't lost anyone, either. That was something.

And there had already been seven cannons. Whether they had personally done something or not, the audience was certainly getting their fill of blood and gore. The Gamemakers would probably leave them alone for a while before deciding to force some of the groups together.

But it was only a matter of time.

The four of them began to sort through the clothes. Most of them were large, but they found a few smaller robes, as well as several oversized pairs of socks that could be used as bags in a pinch. If only they had something to put _in_ those bags.

Aleyn held her tongue as they kept sorting. They weren't likely to find any food hidden among the clothes. But there would be time for that later. It was only the first day of the Games. Only the first few hours, really. They would have time to find food and water later. They didn't have to worry about that right now. But eventually…

Eventually, they would have to make a move.

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

They probably wouldn't have to move for a while.

Klaudia barely held back a gasp as she, Skyton, and Connor finally stopped long enough to get a look around. They were in a large room, the walls lined with barrels. Some of the tops of the barrels were ajar, revealing stores of food. Fruit, vegetables, dried meat, cheese, bread … all there for the taking.

So what was the catch?

Klaudia eyed the food curiously as Connor and Skyton began opening the barrels. "Wait," she said quietly, but they didn't. They simply dug in, eating their fill. Klaudia waited. Waited. It was only once her lungs started to ache that she realized she was holding her breath. She let it out, then took another breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because it always did, sooner or later. Nothing in the Games could be this easy. There simply _couldn't_ be this much food, this far away from the cornucopia. What was the point? Why would the Gamemakers put it _here_?

It was Skyton who noticed that she hadn't started eating. "What's wrong?" he asked, confused. "Don't tell me you're not hungry."

Klaudia opened her mouth to say something, but Connor immediately whirled around, startled. "You don't think the food is—"

"What?" Skyton asked.

"Poisoned?"

Skyton thought for a moment. "Wouldn't we have noticed by now if it was?"

"Maybe. Or maybe not," Klaudia offered. "Depends on what it was poisoned with."

" _If_ it was poisoned with anything," Skyton pointed out. "We don't know that."

"We don't know it _wasn't_ , either," Connor objected.

Skyton shrugged. "If it was, it's a bit late now, don't you think? We already ate quite a bit."

" _We_ did," Connor agreed, eyeing Klaudia. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

Klaudia's face grew red. "I … I don't know. We don't know anything for sure."

"But you suspected."

"I guess."

Skyton stepped between the two of them. "Calm down, Connor. There's probably nothing wrong with the food. Why would they put all of it here just to poison it?"

"Why would they put all of it here in the first place?" Connor demanded.

"It's probably nothing," Skyton repeated. "We're just jumpy because Arabel—"

But he didn't finish the sentence. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he didn't want to admit it to himself. Arabel was dead, and none of them had done a thing about it. None of them _could_ have done anything. She had been too far away, clear on the other side of the room. Even if they'd wanted to try to reach her, they probably wouldn't have made it in time.

Probably.

For a moment, Connor said nothing. Then he nodded a little. "I didn't expect…"

"None of us did," Skyton agreed. "I mean, I just figured that if someone was going to die first, it would be me." He chuckled a little. "Guess I was wrong."

"Guess you were," Connor agreed. "And I'm glad."

Skyton blinked. "You mean it?"

"That I'm glad you survived? Yeah. Both of you. Arabel's gone, but the three of us have a better chance together than we would on our own, right?"

Klaudia nodded a little. He was right about that. And if it turned out that the food _was_ okay to eat, they would have enough to last them quite a while. Skyton and Connor returned to sorting through the food, and Klaudia took a few hesitant steps closer. She _was_ hungry. But not quite hungry enough to chance it.

Not yet.

* * *

 **Ti Bulgur, 14  
** **District Nine**

They didn't have to make a decision yet.

Ti paced across the room as the noises from the next room over died down. Apparently, the tributes in the next room had found some sort of food. Food they weren't entirely sure was safe to eat. Ti sighed. That was better than what he and Retro had found. Barrels. Lots and lots of barrels. Some large, some small, and most of them empty. Apparently, it was some sort of storage room, but at the moment, it seemed to be mostly storing cobwebs.

At least the cobwebs were a normal size. That was something. They didn't have to worry about giant spiders running around all over the place. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen _any_ animals. Ti glanced over at Retro, who was looking through a few more barrels. "Shouldn't there be some sort of animals?"

Retro looked up, confused. "What?"

"A castle this size – it should have some sort of animals. Rats or something, right? Mice? At least some insects crawling around."

Retro shuddered. "Don't give them any ideas, Ti."

Ti chuckled nervously. Retro was right; the Gamemakers certainly didn't need _more_ ideas for mutts. But surely they'd already thought of that. There were probably animals somewhere. And animals meant food.

Then again, they already knew there was food in the next room. "How long do you think it'll take them to figure out whether the food is safe?" Retro asked quietly, careful not to let his voice carry to the next room. They'd been able to hear the other tributes for a while, but one of the boys had been shouting. Now … now they could only guess. There hadn't been any cannons, so they were still alive.

Ti shrugged. "Not long, probably. If there is something in the food, they'd want it to act quickly, right?"

"Maybe."

"So if they're still alive by tonight…"

"You think we should take some?" Retro was catching on quickly.

"Why not? They're not likely to miss it. Sounds like they have plenty."

"We don't have any weapons."

"You think they do?" From the sound of the voices, the tributes were the boys from Ten and the older girl from Eight. He hadn't seen any of them grabbing weapons. Then again, he hadn't seen much after David…

David was dead. He'd been trying to avoid the thought, but now … Ti took a deep breath. David was dead. He and Retro were still alive. That wasn't quite how he'd expected things to go. He'd assumed that Retro, being the youngest, would be the most likely to die first. But age didn't seem to mean all that much now. The three tributes in the next room were all older than them, but if they could sneak in without them noticing, then they'd have a chance.

A chance at stealing some food, not at killing the three of them. He wasn't stupid. They weren't likely to all go to sleep at once. They would leave someone awake, but probably only one person. It wouldn't be that hard to sneak in when it got dark…

Ti almost burst out laughing at the thought. "What?" Retro asked, surprised that Ti was chuckling.

"I was just thinking that once it got dark, we could sneak in and get some food, but—"

"But it's not going to _get_ dark," Retro finished. "Because we're inside, and there aren't any windows."

"Not in this room, at least," Ti agreed. "I guess we'll know it's nighttime when we hear the anthem, but aside from that, there's not really a way to tell day and night apart. So the middle of the day is just as good a time to sneak around as midnight."

Retro smiled a little. "So you think we should try to get something now?"

Ti shook his head. "No, we should probably still wait a little while. Until we're sure the food is safe to eat, or until some of them fall asleep. But if their room is as dim as it is in here, we shouldn't have any problem sneaking in and getting what we need." More importantly, there wasn't any rush. Now that they knew where the food was, they wouldn't have to take a lot at once. They could come back every now and then to get more.

Retro nodded. "Sounds like we've got a plan, then."

A plan. Yes, it _did_ sound like a plan. Ti clapped Retro on the shoulder.

"I think we do."

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18  
** **District Four**

Now he would have time to come up with a plan.

Emmett took a deep breath as the door slammed shut behind him. The room was dark – very dark. But that was a good thing, as long as there were no other tributes inside. He hadn't seen anyone else running this way, but there was no way of knowing whether this was the only way in or out of this particular room. The room he'd just passed through, after all, had several doorways leading out of it.

Emmett closed his eyes, then opened them again. It didn't make much of a difference, really. The room was almost pitch black, the only light filtering in through a small window high above his head. There were bars on the window. Some sort of a cell, perhaps. Maybe a dungeon.

Perfect.

Emmett stretched his legs and started to make his way around the room. In one corner, there was a large wooden table. Emmett slid his hand along the table until his fingers found something. It was a small, thin blade – almost a scalpel, really. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was a start. And it was a _real_ weapon, which had to count for something. It was certainly more useful than the fake daggers at the cornucopia.

Suddenly, his foot brushed against something. Emmett looked down, and nearly burst out laughing. Lying on the ground under the table was an assortment of chains, whips, knives, and other instruments. It seemed this was a dungeon, after all, and a rather nasty one at that. Emmett bent down, lifting one of the chains gingerly. The clanking sound filled the room, echoing off the walls.

His hands were shaking as he laid the chain on the table, then lifted several of the other instruments in turn. It hadn't been an accident – the Gamemakers positioning him near the door that would lead in this direction. It was too perfect to be a coincidence. They knew what he was capable of, even if he hadn't accomplished anything in the bloodbath. They knew what he would be able to do with these weapons – these _tools_ – if he got the chance.

Emmett clenched his fists. He couldn't blame them, really. The audience wanted blood and gore, and he could give them that. Part of him even _wanted_ to. Part of him _wanted_ the feeling of blood on his knife, of another person's flesh beneath his hands. He had always been good at this.

And it had always ended badly.

Emmett took a deep breath. _Everything_ in the Games ended badly. There were no happy endings – not for the Victors who came out, and certainly not for the tributes who died. There was no scenario where he would come out of the Games happy and content, at peace with himself and the things he had done. So he might as well do what had to be done.

But not just yet. He would have time – time to prepare for anyone else who might happen to stumble into the room. It was only a matter of time before someone else decided to come this way. And when they did, he would be ready.

Maybe he had always been ready.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

He would never be ready for this.

Merrik took a deep breath as he and Dinah entered the next room – a room filled with oversized beds. The last room had contained mostly rather large barrels, and for a while the two of them had considered staying there and using the barrels as a place to hide. But it had seemed a bit too close to the cornucopia for his liking, and it hadn't taken long to convince Dinah that it would be best for the two of them to keep going.

The two of them. Merrik barely contained a nervous giggle at the thought. After they'd decided on the train that it would be best if they didn't work together, he and Dinah hadn't really spoken much. And yet here they were, working together. Or at least walking together. Maybe she was grateful that he'd pulled her away from the bloodbath. Maybe she was simply happy to have _any_ company, now that her ally was gone.

And so was his. Lena hadn't been counting on his help, of course – not after what had happened during their private sessions. And maybe it was better this way – better that she had died sooner rather than later. Better that it had been quick. She was dead; there was nothing more they could do to her.

But he was still alive. The Gamemakers certainly _could_ go after him, if they wanted. Unless he gave them a reason not to. He'd tried to do that during the interviews, of course. Tried to persuade them that the incident during training had been Lena's idea, not his own. Apparently, it had worked – at least for now. But how long would it take before they decided they needed to deal with him, too?

And what would happen to Dinah then?

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Merrik asked at last, quietly.

Dinah turned. "What? This room?"

"No … Us. Working together."

"Why not? Because of what happened during your private session? Everyone knows that was your ally's fault." She said it loudly, clearly as much for the audience's sake as for his.

Merrik nodded weakly. She had no idea. She didn't understand why else the Capitol might want to target him, and he didn't dare say it aloud. He had no way to warn her that the Gamemakers might have another reason to make him a target. They'd already made an example out of Lena. If they decided he was a danger, too…

Merrik swallowed hard. He didn't _want_ to leave Dinah. But he also didn't want to put her in danger. If there _was_ a target on his back, he didn't want her to get caught in the crossfire. She didn't deserve that.

No one did.

Suddenly, there was a sound from the next room. A rustling noise. "Someone's coming!" Dinah hissed, putting an end to their conversation.

Merrik froze, glancing at one door out of the room, and then another. One led back the way they had come. Two lay more or less to their right, and there was a staircase to their left, leading up. "Staircase," Merrik hissed. "It's our best chance. Someone else won't want to come that way."

But Dinah was already looking up at the beds. "Let's climb up there. We can see who it is. If it's someone we think we can take, we can ambush them. If not, we can hide under the blankets."

Merrik stared. What? How was she planning to get up there? The beds were feet above their heads. But as he watched, she started clambering up one of the giant ladders at the foot of the nearest bed.

Merrik's heart raced. The noises were getting closer. He had to make a choice. He didn't want to fight. And he certainly didn't want to get caught climbing up the ladder if someone happened to come in at the wrong moment.

He sprinted for the stairs.

"Merrik!" Dinah's whisper echoed off the stone walls. He climbed up one stair, then another. They were large – large enough that anyone at the bottom of the stairs wouldn't be able to see him anymore. He could wait here. After a moment, he couldn't hear Dinah's voice anymore.

It was the perfect place to hide.

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

There didn't seem to be anyone hiding nearby.

Mae shook her head as the others kept searching through the barrels. They'd found wine, ale, beer, and just about every other kind of drink they might want, but no tributes. Maybe that wasn't particularly surprising. If she was trying to hide from a group of Careers, she certainly wouldn't pick somewhere so close to the cornucopia. Well, the _throne_ that was acting as their cornucopia. She would want to get as far away from the Careers as possible.

But that wasn't the position she was in. She was part of the Career pack. She and Genevieve had killed a boy. The first kill of the Games, if she wasn't mistaken. She had just as much a right to be part of the pack as any of them; they'd all proven that during the bloodbath. All of them deserved to be here.

But only one of them would make it _out_.

Suddenly, there was a noise coming from the other room. A whisper. She couldn't quite make out the words, but it was _definitely_ a voice. The others perked up, as well. Immediately, Macauley made a move towards the door, but Etora stepped in her way. "Wait," she hissed.

Macauley raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because if the five of us go charging in there, whoever's there is going to run."

Macauley shrugged. "So we'll chase them."

"And maybe lose them," reasoned Justus, who was following Etora's logic. "But if only one or two of us go in – maybe one or two of us who don't look quite so intimidating…"

He let the end of that sentence go, but it was obvious who he meant. Etora grinned. "You and me, Mae?"

Mae hesitated. "You want to use us as bait?"

Etora smirked, holding up one of the dagger she'd taken from the pile under the throne. "This bait has some bite to it. We're all armed, and they'll be right behind us in case there's a larger group. But from the sound of it, there aren't a lot of them."

She was probably right about that. She'd heard one voice – and only briefly, at that. "Quickly," Etora whispered. "Before they decide to leave, anyway."

Mae turned her own cleaver over in her hands, glancing at the other Careers. They were watching her. Waiting to see how she would respond. Killing during the bloodbath was one thing. That had been a spur of the moment decision. This … this was calculated. That should have made it easier. It made sense. Everything that Etora was suggesting made sense.

So why was she so nervous?

* * *

 **Dinah Peralta, 18  
** **District Three**

There was no reason to be nervous.

Dinah glanced down from her perch on top of one of the beds. Partially hidden under the blankets, but mostly relying on the fact that it was quite dark in the room. There were candles, but there were few of them, and it was a pretty big room. The light didn't really reach all the way up to the top of the beds.

They were higher, too, than they'd looked from the floor. The idea of jumping down to the floor to ambush another tribute was quickly losing its appeal. Maybe Merrik had been right about running. But she was probably just as safe up here as he was on the stairs. Maybe more so. Would anyone who came into the room really think to look up here? Stairs, on the other hand … that seemed a rather natural place to look for stragglers.

Suddenly, she could see a little movement by the door. A tribute – no, _two_ tributes. Two of the younger girls.

Two of the younger _Careers_.

Dinah froze. If these two were here, the others wouldn't be far behind. They had been part of the pack, after all. Certainly they wouldn't have split up this soon. They usually hunted together as a pack. If only two of them had decided to explore the room, there had to be a reason.

It had to be a trap.

She wasn't about to take the bait. Attacking even one of the girls would have certainly been a bad idea. Two of them was out of the question, especially when it would involve jumping down from her perch atop the bed onto the stone floor below. No, her best bet was to stay where she was and hope that the Careers would simply move along.

Right.

They'd heard her, probably. Calling for Merrik earlier. They knew she couldn't have gone far. It was only a matter of time before one of them thought to look up here, and then…

Then _what_? If they decided to climb up onto the bed, she would have the advantage – at least for a little while. If they tried to shoot her, she could probably hide. And neither of the girls seemed to have a bow.

Neither of _these_ two. There was no telling what the others might have. Dinah held her breath, waiting. The two girls looked around, probably trying to look casual. It wasn't working. Despite their age, no one in the audience would see them as anything but Careers. They were killers. They were dangerous.

And they had seen her.

She was sure of it now. One of them had glanced up at the bed. Only briefly, but it was long enough. Long enough for Dinah to be certain she'd been spotted. The girl was trying not to let on that she'd seen Dinah, but was clearly whispering to her companion, who nodded a little. One of them turned and headed back towards the door the two of them had come from – maybe relaying a message to their companions. Dinah ducked lower on the bed, but she already knew it wasn't going to do any good.

She was trapped.

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17  
** **District One**

The girl was trapped.

Justus grinned as he, Genevieve, and Macauley followed Mae into the next room, where Etora was still keeping an eye on the bed above, making sure that the girl didn't try anything. Clearly, she knew better. She was lying there on top of the bed, waiting for … what? For someone to come and save her? Her only ally was dead. But then who had she been whispering to before? Maybe she'd found someone else.

Not that it mattered much now. He didn't see anyone else. If she had been working with someone, they were probably long gone by now. Justus glanced around at the others. None of them had thought to grab a bow from the pile of weapons at the throne. They'd just assumed that ranged weapons would be much use indoors. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, particularly when it decided to perch so high.

Justus shot the girl a grin, fingering the axe he _had_ grabbed from the pile. The girl sat up a little, tense, as he approached one of the legs of the giant bed. Trying to climb up would give the girl an advantage. It would be better to get her to come down – one way or another.

Justus swung, the axe chopping into the wood. Not much. It would take a little while to bring the bed down. But they weren't exactly pressed for time. They could afford to wait. It would be even better, though, if the girl decided to do something rash.

For a moment, it seemed like she wasn't going to. Like she was just going to stay up there and wait for the bed to fall. Suddenly, in one motion, she leapt down from the bed, aiming for the nearest target. Etora, however, was quicker. She stepped out of the way, allowing the girl to land in front of her.

'Land' was a generous term. The girl struck the floor hard, screaming in pain. She tried to get to her feet, but part of a bone was sticking out of one of her legs. Etora took a step towards the girl, but then turned to Mae. "You're the one who spotted her. Would you like to do the honors?"

"Honors?" the girl growled. "You take one step closer, and I'll show you honors."

Mae took a step back. "You can do it."

Etora shrugged and stepped towards the older girl, who was still struggling, trying to get to her feet. She had spirit; he had to give her that. But it wasn't enough to save her. She tried to grab at Etora's hand as the dagger sliced at her throat, but one slash was enough. Etora gave the girl's body a kick, and she toppled backwards as the cannon sounded. Justus nodded, satisfied.

Just then, the anthem began to play.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

The anthem caught her off-guard.

It hadn't seemed that long since the bloodbath. A few hours, at most. But maybe she had lost track of time. The anthem sounded off the walls of the room as Nephelle crouched lower beneath the table. It hadn't taken her long to find this room, and now that she had, she certainly didn't want to leave. There was a large table and chairs – large enough for a feast – but, more importantly, there was only one way in or out. Only one door to watch. As long as she kept watching that door…

At least no one would catch her by surprise. Of course, there wasn't much she would be able to do if a pack of Careers came streaming through that door. But at least they weren't likely to sneak up on her. And it had seemed like a good place to wait for the others.

The others. If they were still alive. She had run from the bloodbath without much more than a second glance. She had left Thomas fighting the boy from One, and Aven clear on the other side of the room, trying to reach them. She could have waited. She could have tried to help them. Instead, she had no idea whether they were alive.

But that wouldn't last long. The faces – wherever they appeared – would tell her whether they were still out there somewhere, at least. Slowly, Nephelle crept out from under the table and glanced up at the ceiling. That was usually where the faces appeared in indoor arenas.

Sure enough, the faces began to appear. The first belonged to one of the older boys from Two. The nurse – she remembered that from the interviews. Nephelle shook her head. He hadn't been far away from her during the bloodbath. Whoever had killed him, she was probably lucky they hadn't gone after her, instead.

Next was the girl from Three, followed by one of the girls from Four. Then the girl from Six – the one who had told everyone after her what to expect from the private sessions. Nephelle fought back a twinge of guilt. Had her own score benefited from what Lena had told them? She had no way of knowing, really.

Maybe it didn't matter. A high score hadn't been what had helped her escape the bloodbath. She had run. She had put her own survival before her allies. And she couldn't help wondering what it was going to cost her…

Nephelle swallowed hard, fighting back a lump in her throat as Thomas' face appeared next. He had needed her help, after all. Part of her had known, when he hadn't caught up to her, that he probably hadn't made it out alive, but she had been hoping, nonetheless. Now that hope was gone.

Then Aven's face appeared, and Nephelle couldn't hold back her tears anymore. Aven was dead. Thomas was dead. She was alone – all alone in the arena. That was what would have had to happen eventually, of course, but she hadn't been ready for it to happen _now_.

The last two faces belonged to the pair from Twelve. And that was it. The last faces faded from the ceiling, and Nephelle ducked back under the table. There was no point in waiting now. No one was coming to help her.

She was all alone.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

He was all alone.

Barlen barely stifled a sob as he buried his face in his sleeve. Leo was dead. He had known that, of course, before seeing his friend's face on the ceiling. He would never forget the look in Leo's eyes. He was sure of that.

And he wished he could. Barlen shook his head, rocking back and forth where he sat. The one thing he wished he _could_ forget was the one thing he was certain would stay with him forever. Leo was dead. Leo had died to save _him_. His friend was dead, and he was still alive.

But how long would that last? How long _could_ it last? He'd been counting on Leo to help him. To remind him of what to do, of what was going on. Now Leo was gone.

What was he supposed to do?

Barlen took a deep breath, his legs shaky as he finally stood up. There was no point in staying here any longer. He was still close to the cornucopia. At least, he was pretty sure he was. There was a large cauldron in the center of the room, and he was almost certain he'd come through the nearest door. He turned and headed for the other one.

Just as he did, however, he saw something near the doorway. A body. It belonged to a girl, and she looked familiar. He couldn't see much in the dim light, but as he got a little closer…

Oh.

It was one of his district partners. What was her name? He was pretty sure it started with an 'A.' He brushed the hair away from her face. Her head was covered in blood – blood that was no longer warm. What had happened to her?

Whatever had happened, he certainly didn't want to go _that_ way. Barlen hurried around to the other side of the cauldron and through a different doorway, slamming the door behind him. To his relief, there was no cornucopia in sight. Instead, the light from the candles on the wall bounced off an array of instruments. Some large, some small, all shining brightly. A smile finally crept back onto Barlen's face. He'd never played an instrument before, and he might never get another chance…

He made his way to one of the larger instruments and plucked a string. It made a low strumming sound. He plucked it a little harder, and the sound got louder. Another string made a slightly higher sound, another a little lower. Barlen reached up to pluck one of the shorter strings, and a higher pitch echoed through the room.

After a moment, he strummed several of the strings quickly, one after the other. A low note, a high note, then a few notes in between. Listening to the sound, it almost sounded familiar. Maybe something he'd heard in a dream.

Barlen reached up and plucked another string. He wanted to remember more. The music … it sounded like it belonged somewhere else. Another place. Maybe even another _time_. And that was what he wanted more than anything right now – to be somewhere else. _Anywhere_ else. Maybe if he wished hard enough, all of this would be a dream.

Maybe if he kept playing, it would wake him up.

* * *

 **Basil Thatch  
** **District Nine Mentor**

"Want me to wake you when someone finds him?"

Basil shook his head, stretching his arms as he took a seat beside Duke on the couch. "Thanks for the offer, but no. I think I can manage to stay awake a little longer. Probably won't take long." It was only a matter of time before the music attracted another tribute or two in the area. They might be wary of music, considering what had happened during the _last_ quell, but that wouldn't keep them from investigating forever.

Duke nodded a little. "I guess not," he agreed. "But that's why you picked him, right?"

Basil's face grew warm. He wanted to deny it, but he'd all but said as much at the reaping. _Don't get your hopes up, and you won't be disappointed._ Those were his words, but now … He _was_ disappointed. Despite himself, he'd gotten his hopes up. He _liked_ Barlen. He was a good kid. He didn't deserve…

"Yeah," Basil agreed reluctantly.

Duke snorted. "Doesn't make it any easier, does it."

"No."

"Maybe you could send him a message. At least tell him to stop playing that damn harp," Duke mumbled.

Basil chuckled. "Look, maybe our tributes don't rebel on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean sponsors are flocking to District Nine, Duke. Especially not to support a kid who can only occasionally remember what he ate for breakfast. Sure, the audience thinks he's cute, but that doesn't mean they're ready to fork over the resources it'll take to keep him alive."

"Maybe I can help with that," came a voice from behind them.

Basil turned, startled, to see Vester standing behind the couch. For a moment, Basil said nothing. He'd assumed, with Leo dead, that Vester would be sitting around reminiscing with the older Victors, or maybe even leaving entirely. It was no secret that he hadn't really wanted to be here, that he hadn't mentored since the last Quarter Quell.

Finally, Basil found his voice. "What do you mean?"

"My name still has some pull with the sponsors," Vester explained. "If we work together, we might be able to scrape up enough sponsors to send him something. Nothing elaborate, mind you, but something small."

"Why?"

"To help keep him alive."

"No, I mean … Why do you want to help him, rather than helping the other tributes from your district?"

Vester laid a hand on Basil's shoulder, and he almost shrank away. Almost. Instead, he forced himself to meet Vester's gaze. The Hunger Games' first Victor smiled sadly. "I think Leo would have wanted it. And since I can't send anything to him, I may as well be of use elsewhere. Besides," he added. "Do you think the other tributes from Two really _need_ my help right now?"

He had a point. Margo and Annemae had made it away from the bloodbath with plenty of supplies. Etora had just earned a third kill, while Darian was sitting comfortably at the cornucopia with Elliot. The Careers didn't need Vester's help. Barlen did. He needed all the help he could get. Finally, Basil nodded. "What did you have in mind?"

Vester smiled. "There are two more people I think we should talk to."

* * *

" _If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."_


	35. Double Trust

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Quick shout-out to _BamItsTyler_ , who has an open SYOT. Check it out and send some tributes his way.

* * *

 **Day One  
** **Double Trust**

* * *

 **Imalia Grenier  
** **District Four Mentor**

They knew something was wrong.

Imalia leaned back in her chair as Ronan, Shanali, and Kilian looked around in confusion. The anthem had sounded, and the faces had been projected in the sky as well as on the ceilings inside the castle. But it wasn't dark. The sun was beginning to set, but it certainly wasn't nighttime yet. More like late afternoon.

There was probably some sort of pattern to it. Something they hadn't figured out yet. During the last Quarter Quell, there hadn't been any faces in the sky at all; the lights in the space station had flickered on and off with every third death in the arena, leaving most of the tributes confused and disoriented by the time a day or two had passed. Maybe that was the idea here – to confuse the tributes about which day it was. But those who had found their way outside – or those who, like Emmett, had found their way to a room with a window – would know something was going on.

Something. But chances were, they didn't know exactly what. The anthem had apparently been triggered by Dinah's death, but what, exactly, had been special about that, she wasn't sure. It was the eighth death. The first death after the bloodbath. Etora's third kill. Was one of those things significant, or was it something else entirely?

Significant. Imalia shook her head, disgusted. _Every_ death in the Games was significant, but after seven years of mentoring, it was hard not to think of some deaths as more important than others. Dinah wasn't one of her tributes, or one of her tributes' allies. Her death was simply something that needed to happen in order to move the Games along. It made perfect sense for her to feel nothing about Dinah's death. It was completely logical.

And she still hated it.

"Trying to figure it out?" Kalypso's voice caught her by surprise. Imalia nodded as her mentor slid into a seat beside hers. "There just _has_ to be a pattern to it, right?"

Imalia raised an eyebrow. "You think there isn't?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. We're always looking for patterns in things, but sometimes there just _isn't_ one. Sometimes the Gamemakers simply time things for when they think it'll be the most dramatic, not according to any real pattern. That sends us scurrying around, trying like mad to figure out what's going on, when it doesn't really matter _what_ the pattern is."

"But if we figure it out—"

"Then what? What good does it do? At least last Quarter Quell, once they figured out the lights, the tributes could use that information to plan when the best time to sleep would be, or when they would have an easier time getting around. But nothing changed about the arena when the anthem played. The candles didn't go out. It's still exactly as dark in there as it has been. All that changed is that they now know _who's_ dead, something they would have found out soon enough, anyway." She shook her head. "The only difference is that Ronan, Shanali, Kilian, and probably Emmett know that the anthem isn't going to coincide with the end of the day. That's all."

Imalia nodded. She was probably right. Still, that seemed to have been enough to spook Ronan and the others, who were now slowly making their way back down the staircase. Maybe they'd figured out that staying at the top of the tower wasn't going to do them much good. It wasn't as if they could get anywhere else from there; the tower was too tall to climb down from the outside. Their best option was to go back inside the castle. But there was something they _didn't_ know – not yet, at least.

They weren't the only ones on the stairs.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

They weren't alone on the stairs.

Shanali stopped short as soon as she heard the sound. Ronan and Kilian quickly followed suit. The sound was faint – quite a ways below them, probably – but echoing off the stone walls of the tower. Faint footsteps, and the sound of sobbing. "Someone's coming," Shanali whispered, and the other two nodded, drawing their weapons.

Shanali clutched her dagger tightly as the sound grew closer. Ronan took a step forward, meaning to be the first to intercept whoever was coming. As soon as the other tribute came into view, however, Ronan lowered his mace.

It was the boy from Three, sobbing as he clambered up the stairs. As soon as he saw Ronan, however, he stopped, staring. Terrified. But instead of running back down the stairs, he dropped to his knees. "Go ahead, then. Make it quick. Either you do it or they will."

Ronan took a step closer. "They?"

"The Careers – they're in the room at the bottom of the stairs. Or, at least, they were. They killed Dinah, and I … I didn't do _anything._ I just sat there. I heard it all. I should have done something, but I just hid." The words tumbled out so fast, it was hard to separate them. The boy lowered his gaze, waiting. "Get it over with. I deserve it. I…"

Ronan hesitated a moment, raising his weapon. The boy from Three held his breath, his eyes squeezed shut. One moment passed, then another. At last, the boy opened one of his eyes, peeking up at Ronan. "What are you waiting for?"

Ronan lowered his mace. "We owe you one. If you hadn't told us the Careers were down there, we would have kept going, wandered on in and probably ended up dead. We owe you for that." He nodded up the stairs. "Go, and consider us even."

The boy stood up shakily. "You mean it?"

Ronan nodded, and Kilian and Shanali quickly did the same. He wasn't a threat. He was unarmed. He wasn't going to sneak up on them and attack them. And Ronan was right; he _had_ probably just saved their lives, or at least saved them from a nasty fight. The boy took a few shaky steps up the stairs, then took off a little faster, clambering up and around the next bend.

Ronan let out a deep breath. "Okay. Careers down there. Pretty much nothing up on top of the tower. What do you say we settle down for the night, hope the Careers decide to move on by morning?"

"If we'll even be able to tell when morning is," Shanali mumbled. "Who's to say they're even there anymore? Why wouldn't they just keep moving?"

Kilian shook his head. "Even if they _did_ keep moving, they can't be too far away yet. Let's let them put some distance between us." He shrugged. "Unless you really _want_ to fight a fully-armed Career pack."

Shanali held her tongue. She didn't. But she also knew they'd just missed an opportunity. The boy from Three would have been an easy kill. At least then it would seem to the audience like they were doing _something_. Part of her wanted to suggest going after him, but that didn't seem fair. If they were going to kill him, they should have done it and gotten it over with. Letting him go only to go after him again … that wasn't right.

Right. Wrong. As if that really meant anything in the Games. The boy would have to die, anyway. Maybe it would have been kinder to end it for him right away. He was clearly miserable. He blamed himself for his ally's death. Killing him might even have been a mercy.

But it was too late now.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

It was too late now.

Merrik wiped the tears from his eyes as he continued up the stairs. It was too late to change his mind. He could have simply stayed with the others; that would probably have forced them to kill him. They wouldn't want him to _join_ them, after all – not after what had happened to his last two allies.

Or maybe he could have gone back down the stairs. The Careers were probably still there, and _they_ would have killed him without a second thought. It was what he deserved, certainly. He had left Dinah to die. She had been calling for him, and he … he hadn't done _anything_. He'd just sat there on the stairs like a coward, saving his own skin.

And now he was doing the same thing. Because part of him hadn't really wanted the boy from Four to kill him. It had just seemed like a better alternative than being hunted down by the Careers. But now that he had a chance to escape … of course he had taken it. He wanted to live.

But he didn't want to live like _this_.

Merrik slowed a little as he neared what seemed to be the top of the stairs. There seemed to be light coming from the top. Maybe the moon was bright tonight. Or maybe there was some sort of lantern at the top – like a lighthouse, maybe. Merrik scrambled up the last few steps and out into the daylight.

 _Daylight?_

Merrik looked around, confused. It _was_ still daylight. Late afternoon, or maybe early evening. Certainly not night. What was going on? The anthem had already sounded, and the faces – including Dinah's – had appeared. The first day was over.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

Merrik collapsed at the top of the stairs, exhausted. It hadn't even been a whole day yet, but it felt like he'd been in the arena forever. Lena was dead. Dinah was dead. He _should_ have been dead, but the boy from Four had … what? Felt sorry for him? Probably, and that made it even worse. The boy probably hadn't even spared his life out of gratitude for the information Merrik had given him. He'd just been that pitiful.

But that didn't mean he couldn't finish the job.

Merrik stood up, his legs shaking beneath him. Slowly, he approached the edge of the tower. There wasn't much of a barrier; the wall came only to about his knees. He could make it look like an accident, like he'd tripped. The audience would never know. His _mother_ would never know. Just a few steps now, and it would all be over. He wouldn't have to worry anymore. He wouldn't have to run, or hide, or fight. It would just be … done.

Merrik closed his eyes. He wanted it over. But he didn't want to _die_. He just wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. But death … that wasn't what death was.

Was it?

Maybe. Maybe not. Merrik dropped to his knees, gripping the wall in front of him. It wasn't _fair_. He shouldn't be alive, when both of his allies were dead. But he was the one still here. He was his district's only chance now. And he would have to live with that.

If only for a little while.

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

It seemed like only a little while since the others had left.

Elliot grinned at Darain as the two settled down near one of the legs of the throne. They'd already eaten their fill of the supplies from the cornucopia, then put the rest back in its place. "I guess the others were busy," Elliot ventured at last, trying to make conversation.

Darian looked up. "You think the cannon was someone they killed?"

Elliot nodded. "Probably. They went that way, and I think that's the way the pair from Three ran. Could be wrong, I suppose, but we'll find out soon enough."

"When do you think they'll be back?"

Elliot shrugged. "Could be a while, if they decide to keep going and try to find some of the other tributes. I wouldn't stay up waiting for them, if that's what you mean. If you want to get some sleep, I can keep watch."

Darian shook his head. "I'm good. Not really tired, actually."

Elliot nodded. Strangely enough, he wasn't particularly tired, either. "Suit yourself. We can always sleep later. I don't think anyone's going to be stupid enough to try to sneak back and get some supplies tonight."

Darian chuckled. "Is that why you volunteered to stay? Think it's going to be an easy job tonight?"

"It's certainly not a downside," Elliot conceded. "How about you?"

"Figured it might give me some more time to practice with a few of these weapons," Darian reasoned. "I don't think it's really a secret I don't have as much training as some of you."

Elliot stood up, nodding towards the pile of weapons. "Well, if you want to practice…"

Darian raised an eyebrow. "You mean it?"

"Why not? It'll be more worthwhile than practicing on your own – and more fun, I'll wager. I mean, we should probably pick something blunt so we don't accidentally hurt each other, but … why not?"

Darian thought for a moment, then reached for one of the thin wooden staffs near the bottom of the pile. Carefully, he broke it in two and handed one half to Elliot.

"You're on."

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

"We should keep moving on."

Macauley paced the room as the others continued to search the beds for any sign of something useful, or any sign of more tributes. Not that there were likely to be any. Any other tributes who _had_ been with the girl from Three were probably long gone by now. They'd lost any chance they might have had to catch up.

The other Careers, however, seemed content to stay a little longer. And maybe that wasn't such a bad move. Together, they were responsible for most of the kills in the arena so far. And Etora had three. _Three_. A twelve-year-old kid had more kills than she did.

Maybe that was the real reason she wanted to keep moving, but she wasn't about to admit that to the others. They were being shown up by the youngest member of the pack, and the others seemed like they were just going to take it in stride. Hell, Etora had _offered_ to let Mae make the kill, and she hadn't taken the opportunity.

She kept trying to tell herself that it didn't matter. In the end, the number of kills a Victor had didn't really count for much. It wasn't as if any of them were likely to break the current record, after all. Adalyn's record of sixteen kills would probably stand for quite a while, particularly if the Capitol kept their word about returning to the standard twenty-four tributes following the Quell.

Of course, it wasn't really about whether the Capitol kept their word – just like the increase in tributes hadn't been about the Capitol in the first place. The districts were the ones responsible. Not that the change had had much of an effect on District Five. In fact, in the eight years since the increase in tributes, they'd had two Victors. And this year could bring them a third.

No. No, not _could_. It _would_ bring them a third. And it was going to be her. Which was why it didn't matter – not really – that Etora had more kills at the moment. As long as she won in the end, she would be happy with that, and so would the rest of District Five.

"Look, if you want to keep going, no one's stopping you," Genevieve pointed out. "We just thought this would be as good a place as any to rest for a little while."

"And that's probably the same thing some other tributes are thinking not that far away," Macauley argued. "We should go after them while _they'll_ still be tired."

"Probably not going to be that tired yet," Etora reasoned. "It hasn't been that long since the anthem. They'll probably be up for a little while yet. If we wait a little longer, we'll be more likely to catch them while they're sleeping."

Justus nodded. "In the meantime, we might as well get some rest. I'd say we've earned it. Wouldn't you?"

Macauley glanced around at the others. They all seemed to agree that it was better to stay for a while. And she certainly didn't want to go exploring on her own. Not yet, at least. There would be time for that later. Reluctantly, Macauley nodded, settling down along with the others.

"I'll take the first watch, then."

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

So much for keeping watch for the night.

Vashti sighed, pacing the room as the music kept playing. It was definitely some sort of instrument, being played somewhere nearby. Mariska looked up from where she was crouched by the door, as if waiting for some sort of attack. "Do you think we should go see who it is?"

Vashti took a few steps closer. He'd been wondering the same thing. If it was a tribute playing the music, after all, it probably wouldn't be much of a fight. Anyone stupid enough to be sitting around playing an instrument in the middle of the Games would probably be an easy kill.

Probably. The alternative, of course, was that someone was trying to draw them in by _pretending_ to be an easy kill. It could very well be a trap. Or it could be the Gamemakers trying to lure them towards someone. That was what had happened during the last Quarter Quell, after all. There had been mutts that made a sound like singing, and towards the end the Gamemakers had used them to lure the tributes together.

Towards the _end_. That was the difference, really. They were nowhere near the end of the Games right now. Only eight tributes were dead. It was barely the first night. What were the chances that the Gamemakers were really trying to drive them together this soon?

That left two options: either it was an easy kill or a trap. After a moment, Vashti nodded. "I think we should." The words echoed across the room. They both knew it could be a deadly mistake, but _not_ going could be an even worse one. The audience didn't take kindly to tributes who passed up the opportunity for an easy kill.

He hadn't been counting on the audience's help, of course. Not really. Finding the armory, after all, had been a result of the Gamemakers' decisions, not the audience's. Despite how well the two of them had done so far, they weren't likely to get sponsors anytime soon. Not unless they did something to prove that they deserved them. And taking the initiative now certainly qualified.

Didn't it?

Slowly, Vashti followed Mariska out of the room, back into the room with the large cauldron. The sound was growing louder, probably coming from the next room. Mariska approached the door first, peeking in. Silently, she backed away from the door and held up nine fingers.

District Nine. They'd killed the girl from District Nine. That left her two district partners – both younger boys. And the younger one had been positioned near them during the bloodbath. It was probably him. Vashti's mind raced. The boy's only ally had been the older boy from Two, and he was dead. So this wasn't a trap, after all.

It really _was_ going to be that easy.

Just as he took a step towards the door, however, the music was interrupted by a soft pinging noise. A small door opened in the ceiling, allowing a parachute to drop through before closing again. Vashti raised an eyebrow as the package floated lightly to the ground. A weapon, perhaps? A message to go on and get it over with? Surely Harakuise realized that was what they were about to do, anyway. Even without proper weapons, it wouldn't take much to kill the boy in the next room.

Mariska caught the package, studying it for a moment before looking around, confused. "I think there's been a mistake," she whispered, handing it to Vashti. On the side were two numbers, but neither of them was a five or an eight like they had been expecting. Instead, a two and a nine were written on the package.

Vashti glanced in the next room, where the music had stopped. The younger boy held a package, as well, and looked just as confused. Vashti smirked. "It's not a mistake."

It was a message.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

There must have been some sort of mistake.

Barlen turned the package over again, looking for more numbers. But the only ones he could find were a five and an eight. What was that supposed to mean? There were eight tributes who were dead, weren't there? Leo, one of his district partners, and … Who else? There had been more faces than that, he was sure, but he couldn't remember _who_.

Maybe it didn't matter – not now, at least. He could figure that out later. Right now, the important thing was what was _in_ the package. If it had been meant for someone else, that wasn't his fault. Maybe the Gamemakers had mixed up the parachutes. Maybe someone had felt sorry for him. Either way, he had _something_.

"I think this belongs to you."

Barlen leapt to his feet, startled. The voice had come from behind him. He whirled around, nearly crashing into the harp, but a hand reached out to stop him. "Whoa, easy there." The voice and the hand belonged to an older girl. Beside her was a boy, holding a small package with the numbers two and nine on it. _His_ district, and Leo's. What was going on?

"It looks like there was a bit of a mix-up," the girl offered, steadying him. "We got your package, and you got ours. So what do you say we trade, and we can go our separate ways."

Barlen hesitated. That seemed reasonable. If they'd wanted to kill him, after all, they could have done it already. Instead, they were offering him a chance. "Why?" he asked before he had a chance to realize he'd said it out loud. "Why didn't you try to kill me?"

The other two kids – the other two _tributes_ – looked at each other for a moment, as if exchanging a silent message. At last, it was the boy who spoke. "We felt we owed it to Aven."

"Who?"

"Your district partner," the girl answered. "During the bloodbath, we—"

"We were working together," the boy interrupted. "During the bloodbath, she ran in to get some supplies, but she was injured. She had just enough time to get us the supplies before … well, she didn't make it. I'm sure you saw her face earlier."

Barlen nodded. He remembered that. "I found her body in the other room." His voice was barely a whisper. "She was already dead. I…"

The girl put an arm around his shoulder. "She may very well have saved our lives. Returning your parachute … well, it's the least we can do." She took the package from the boy and held it out to Barlen. "Trade?"

Barlen nodded silently, holding out the package he'd received. The girl took it and opened it, revealing three loaves of bread. Barlen opened his, which contained two similar loaves. "One of these was probably meant for Leo," he said quietly. "They sent it even though he…"

"They sent one for Aven, too." The boy sounded a little surprised.

The girl turned one of the loaves over in her hands. "Maybe this wasn't a mistake at all. Maybe it means…"

The boy shook his head. "No, let's just go – while we still can. We don't know who else might be nearby." The two of them turned and headed for the door. Barlen gripped the package tightly. He couldn't let them just walk away. Not when he'd already lost Leo. He needed help. He needed…

"Wait!"

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

"Wait!"

Mariska held her breath as the younger boy's voice echoed across the room. She and Vashti turned as he hurried to catch up with them, panting for breath. He looked up at Mariska, his eyes wide and pleading. "Please, wait. Maybe you're right. Maybe it wasn't a mistake. What if it means … what if it means we should work together? You said you were working with Aven."

Yes. Yes, Vashti _had_ said that. Using the death of the boy's district partner to gain his sympathy – it was a clever move. It was what Malchus had been trying to get her to do during the interviews. He'd wanted her to use Willa's death to gain the audience's sympathy. Now Vashti was doing the same thing.

And it was working.

But this was different, wasn't it? Neither of them had known Aven. Hell, Barlen had probably barely known her. They were district partners, sure, but what did that really mean? How well did she know Klaudia? How well did Vashti know his district partners? Would the fact that they were from the same district really mean anything if they came across each other in the arena?

No. No, it meant nothing. It was just another trick. Another way to get the boy to join them. Because that was what they had wanted from the start – what their mentors had been trying to nudge them towards. Maybe the boy wouldn't be particularly useful in a fight, but he was something even better. He was expendable. He was malleable. With a word or two, he could probably be coaxed or goaded into doing anything they asked. It was terrible. It was cruel. Maybe even inhuman.

But it could save their lives.

It had been Vashti's idea to trade and walk away, make it seem to the boy like an alliance was _his_ idea. Now he was practically begging them to let him join them. In his position, of course, she couldn't really say that she would be doing anything differently. They were both older and stronger than him. They had armor and supplies, and they knew where to find more of both. Maybe they were manipulating the younger boy, but it wasn't as if he was getting a raw deal, either.

Mariska turned to Vashti. "Maybe just for a _little_ while…"

The younger boy latched onto the idea like a dog scooping up a bone. "Please, just for a little while. I won't be a bother, I swear."

Vashti made a show of considering the offer, but she already knew what his answer would be. "All right. Just for a little while."

Mariska laid a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "I'm Mariska, and this is Vashti." She held out a hand.

But instead of shaking it, the boy immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. Then he turned to Vashti. "Is that an 'e' or an 'i'?"

"What?"

The boy quickly jotted down Mariska's name on his arm, right under Leo's. "Your name – is it an 'e' or an 'i' at the end?"

"An 'i,' but—"

Before he could get the rest of the sentence out, Vashti's name was added to the list. Barlen smiled, circled both names, and wrote the word "FRIENDS" in capital letters outside the circle. Then he reached out and shook Mariska's hand. "Good to meet you."

And maybe it was.

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18  
** **District Two**

Maybe there was still time.

Mae turned her dagger over in her hands, glancing over at Margo. Her ally seemed content to stay put, especially now that the music coming from down the hall was gone. They had assumed, when the music had started, that someone was trying to do the same thing they were. They had been waiting in the room with the birds, allowing them to squawk, because they'd thought the sound might lure in a tribute or two.

So far, however, they'd had no success. And from the sound of it, whoever had been playing the music had decided to give up. There hadn't been any cannons since the music had stopped, after all. "Maybe we should go see who it was," Mae said at last. "They won't be expecting anyone to show up looking for them now."

Even as she said it, though, she knew it was already too late. Margo shook her head. "How are we supposed to find them now? Could you tell exactly where the music was coming from?"

"No, but…"

"Then we'd just be wandering around aimlessly, hoping to stumble across someone. Does that sound like a good plan?"

Mae shrugged. "It does seem to be what Careers do most of the time."

"It's what most Career _packs_ do," Margo corrected. "Packs that can afford to lose a member or two while they're wandering around, hoping to find someone. We can't. We have to be a bit more careful than that."

Mae nodded a little. Margo was right. But being too cautious could be just as deadly as taking too many risks. The fact that they'd made a kill during the bloodbath would only keep them safe from the Gamemakers for so long. Sooner or later, they would have to make a move. And if no one was going to come to them…

"Tomorrow," Margo suggested, as if she had been thinking the same thing. "If no one shows up here by morning, then we can keep moving. Keep looking. But we can't just go running off half-cocked after every sound we hear."

"I wasn't suggesting—"

"I know. I just don't want to do anything stupid. We can't afford to. Certainly not this soon."

Mae nodded. "Agreed."

If only it was that easy.

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

Maybe it really _was_ going to be that easy.

Klaudia watched silently as Skyton and Connor sat down for another meal. Hours had passed since they'd found the room full of food, and still … nothing. No signs that any of the food was anything except perfectly safe. And she _was_ getting hungry. How long could she put off following her allies' example?

"Sure you won't have some?" Skyton asked, holding out a piece of bread.

Klaudia took it, her hands shaking even as she did. It looked perfectly fine. Just like any other piece of bread. She took one bite. Then another. Connor smiled as he tossed her a stick of beef. "See? Nothing to worry about."

Maybe he was right.

Klaudia smiled as she settled down beside the two boys. Together, the three of them ate their fill. Klaudia shook her head in disbelief. She was actually … full. In the _Hunger_ Games. What were the chances of that?

What were the chances of _any_ of this?

Klaudia barely held back a yawn; all of the food was making them sleepy. Just as she was about to suggest that maybe they should get some rest, however, a gentle pinging noise filled the air. The three of them immediately looked up. What could the sponsors be sending them? They already had all the food they could ask for. Maybe it was a weapon, but the package seemed a bit small for that.

The package landed in the middle of the three of them. Connor reached for it, but shrugged when he saw the number on it. "It's for you," he offered, tossing it to Klaudia. She was so surprised, she barely caught it in time. Why would they be sending _her_ something?

Slowly, she opened the package. Inside was a knife, two small glass bottles, and … a note. She unfolded the note, and the two boys waited expectantly. Klaudia held the note a little closer in the dim light. "An antidote for the…" She hesitated. But refusing to say the words wouldn't help anything. "For the poison in the meat."

The three of them froze. Poison. So she had been right, after all. She had known it. She had _known_. But she'd let her hunger get the best of her. Klaudia swallowed hard. There were three of them. Two bottles. The Gamemakers knew exactly what they were doing. They had waited until all three of them had eaten something, and then…

Then they had sent _her_ the bottle. Why her? Because she had been the last to give in and eat the food? Or was there another reason?

She didn't have much time to wonder about it. Before she realized what was happening, Connor was on top of her. Reaching for the bottles. "Give me one!" he demanded, but she clutched the package tight. If he took one, and Skyton did the same … They were both stronger than her. She had to do something. She had to—

Connor's hands were around her neck. Was he trying to kill her? Or just hoping that once she was unconscious, she would let go of the bottles? Klaudia felt around in the package for the other gift. The knife. Skyton was shouting something. Something she couldn't hear over the pounding in her ears. She could barely see anything. But she had a hand free. And Connor didn't seem to be paying any attention to her hand.

Not until the knife found his side.

She heard Skyton scream. Felt the blood trickling down her arm as Connor's body collapsed onto her. His hands loosened around her throat. Kicking wildly, she rolled out from under him, still clutching the knife in one hand and the package in the other. Connor was clutching his side, trying to staunch the bleeding. Klaudia stabbed again. Then again. The fourth blow found his throat, and he stopped screaming.

 _Boom._

The cannon shook her back to the moment. The package was still in her hand. The package. The antidote. Klaudia opened one of the bottles and poured its contents down her throat, then reached for the other. Skyton.

Then she looked up. Skyton was staring at her, tears brimming in his eyes. His mouth was moving. Klaudia shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. What was he saying?

"What?"

Skyton shook his head. "You didn't have to … He didn't have to … Why couldn't you just _listen_?"

Klaudia looked down at the bottle in her hands. "But … Three of us. Two bottles." She shook her head.

"What else were we supposed to do?"

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

"What else were we supposed to do?"

Skyton took a step backwards. She didn't understand. He'd been shouting, begging the two of them to stop. But they hadn't listened. They didn't understand.

"Two bottles," he agreed. "With an antidote for the poison in the _meat_. Specifically the meat, right?"

Klaudia glanced down at the note, now stained red with Connor's blood. "Yes."

"I didn't eat any of the meat."

Realization dawned on Klaudia's face. Too late. Far too late. Connor was already dead. "I … I didn't know. He just … Skyton, he was trying to kill me."

Skyton swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. "I know. But you could have just … just given him one. One for you, one for him. He didn't have to attack you. You didn't have to kill him. No one had to die."

 _No one had to die._ Even as he said it, he knew how stupid it sounded. This was the Hunger Games. Almost _everyone_ had to die. But what he'd really meant was, _she_ didn't have to be the one to kill him. They hadn't had to turn on each other.

Some part of him, in some small corner of his mind, knew that it wasn't her fault. That this was exactly what the Gamemakers had intended. They had sent the bottles specifically to _her_ , because they'd wanted a fight. If they'd sent the bottles to him, he would have given them to the other two, knowing he didn't need the antidote. And if they'd sent the package to Connor, he would have taken one for himself, and … what? Would Klaudia have attacked him? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there would have been time to explain before…

Before someone had died. But someone _was_ dead. He hadn't been quick enough. Skyton took another step back, back towards the door behind him. Klaudia hadn't _wanted_ to kill Connor. It had been a misunderstanding. But how long would it be before there was another misunderstanding? Could he really trust her to watch his back?

"Please." Klaudia's voice was barely a whisper. "Please … don't go. Don't leave me alone."

Skyton clenched his fists. He didn't want to go. But it was clearly what the Gamemakers wanted. For whatever reason, they seemed intent on driving their group apart. If he didn't leave now, what would they do next? What would Klaudia do next?

What would _he_ do next?

Skyton swallowed hard. Would he really have acted any differently, if he'd needed the antidote? He hadn't, but what if they had put the poison in the bread? Would he have been the one to attack Klaudia instead? He didn't want to think so. He wanted to believe that he would have suggested something else – maybe splitting the antidote between the three of them and hoping two-thirds of a dose would be enough. He hoped that was what he would have done.

But he didn't _know_. None of them knew for sure, and that was even more frightening than the sight of Connor's body on the floor, the blood on Klaudia's hands, the knife that clattered to the floor as she held her hands out to him, begging him to stay. Skyton turned away, racing down the hall as quickly as his legs would carry him. He couldn't stay. He _couldn't_.

He was better off on his own.

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

Maybe they _were_ better off staying put.

Wes nearly jumped as the cannon shook the others awake. He had volunteered to take the first watch, although what, exactly, he was supposed to do if someone came looking for them hadn't really been clear. Wake the others, probably, and hope there was time to run. They certainly weren't prepared for a fight. They'd found plenty of extra clothes in the closets, but no weapons. Sure, they could probably use some of the fabric as a noose or something if someone got close enough, but by the time they did…

But what else were they supposed to do? Go back to the cornucopia and get something? Maybe. But would he really be able to convince the others that that was a good idea? Probably not. _He_ wasn't convinced it was a good idea. Eventually, though, they would have to do something. They weren't all that likely to just stumble across a pile of food, after all. They would have to put in some effort.

"Who do you think that was?" Aleyn asked softly.

Wes shook his head. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

Consus shuddered. "It sounded close."

"It's a cannon," Wes pointed out. "Wherever they set them off from, it doesn't mean that was anywhere near whoever died. Besides, these walls make things echo. They could have been on the other side of the castle, for all we know."

"Or they could have been in the next room," Charu countered. "We don't _know_."

"You're right," Wes agreed. "I mean, if we knew _where_ they were, we could head in the opposite direction. But if we start moving now—"

Aleyn cut him off. "Who said anything about moving now?"

"No one, but…"

"But you think we should?" Charu asked.

"I don't know," Wes admitted. "No one's found us here yet, but … well, we don't really have any supplies, either. I don't think those really count," he added, nodding to the pile of clothes they'd collected. "Maybe this _would_ be a good time to explore a bit."

"Why now?" Consus asked.

"Because no one will be expecting us to move _now_. It's night. There was just a cannon. People will be expecting the tributes to settle down for the night, if they haven't already. The Careers might even be asleep."

"Does it _sound_ like the Careers are asleep?" Consus chuckled.

"We don't know that was the Careers," Charu pointed out. "Could have been anyone. And even if it _was_ the Careers, there's no telling where they are by now."

"Probably not at the cornucopia," Aleyn said softly.

Wes raised an eyebrow. So she had been thinking the same thing. That came as a bit of a surprise, since she had been the one to suggest having a good look around before moving on. Maybe she'd gotten enough of a good look. Maybe the last cannon had spooked her.

Or maybe she was just hungry. There was food back at the cornucopia, after all, and that was the only place they could be _certain_ there was food. They could keep moving along, of course, hoping to find something, but what were the chances they would stumble across exactly what they needed?

"You're right," he said quietly. "They're probably not at the cornucopia – not most of them, at least. Maybe we should…"

Consus chuckled a little. "You want to try to steal some supplies?"

"You think we're going to get a better opportunity?" Wes asked. "We have to do _something_. If we stay here long enough, someone will find us, or the Gamemakers will force us out, or if we wait long enough, we'll just starve. And I don't know about you, but none of those sound like good options to me."

For a moment, there was silence, and Wes feared he might have said too much. He hadn't mean to come off so snappy. He was just … well, nervous. He didn't want the Gamemakers to decide they weren't being interesting enough. Wasn't it better to take the initiative themselves? After all, they could always send someone to the cornucopia to have a look around and come back. But would the others think that was a good idea?

"Maybe one person should go have a look."

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

"Maybe one person should go have a look."

Consus couldn't quite believe the words had come out of his own mouth. All eyes turned towards him. "It's better than all of us going, right? They might hear four of us coming, but one? One person could probably sneak in, get a good look around, and maybe snatch something while they're there."

Charu shook her head. "Four of us would have a better chance in a fight."

Consus raised an eyebrow. "Against the Careers?"

"There may not even be any there," Aleyn pointed out.

"Or there might be one or two," Charu added. "We could take one or two of them."

"Or we could avoid that by sending _one_ person," Consus repeated.

"Who are you suggesting?" Charu asked. "Or are you volunteering?"

"I…" He trailed off. He hadn't _meant_ to volunteer himself. But now that all was said and done, it didn't really seem fair to ask someone else to go, instead. "I'll go," he offered. "Even if there is someone there, there's pretty good odds it would be one of my district partners. They might not even want to go after me."

It was a bluff, of course. Chances were, even if they were at the cornucopia, none of his district partners would give a damn about _who_ was trying to steal from them. The fact that they were from the same district meant nothing, especially because he'd made no efforts to pretend to be Career material. He was just another tribute to them.

On top of that, the chances that any of his district partners had been left to guard the cornucopia seemed slim. Justus seemed to be the leader of the group, and Genevieve didn't seem like the sort who would want to be left behind. Maybe Mae would have stayed, but wouldn't the Careers want to leave someone a bit more … well, intimidating? Someone who would be able to scare people away from the cornucopia?

Or maybe that was the trick. Maybe they _wanted_ to try to lure people in. Maybe they _would_ leave someone like Mae in the hope that someone would think she was an easy target. Or maybe not. Maybe they hadn't left anyone at all.

There was only one way to find out.

"Are you sure?" Wes asked, offering him the chance to back out.

No. No, he wasn't sure. But now that he'd made the offer, the audience would expect him to keep his word. Besides, it wasn't as if he was offering to _fight_ the Careers. All he had to do was get close enough to get a look around, see who was there, figure out whether the four of them could handle whoever was guarding the cornucopia, and maybe steal something while he was there. When he broke it down like that, it didn't seem so bad. At last, he nodded. "I'm sure."

He just hoped he'd made the right choice.

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

It sounded like they'd made the right choice.

Retro glanced over at Ti as the two of them waited. It was a good thing they'd decided not to try to steal some of the food sooner. But now they knew what to avoid. It seemed like the meat was the only thing that had been poisoned. As long as they avoided that…

And the other boy had left – or, at least, they had assumed so from the girl's crying. For a while, she had kept calling out to him, begging him to come back. But he hadn't. And since the cannon had coincided with most of the ruckus in the other room, it wasn't hard to figure out why. She had killed one of her allies, and the other had left. Which one, he hadn't been able to tell from the voices. But one of the boys from Ten was dead, and the other had left her.

That left only the girl from Eight guarding what was apparently quite a lot of food. If she had any sense, she would probably leave soon enough. It wouldn't be a good idea to stay there for the night. She had no way of knowing, of course, that anyone else was nearby, but still…

"How long do you think we should wait?" Retro whispered. The two of them had been careful to talk in whispers, especially since the cannon had sounded. If they could hear the tributes in the next room, after all, it stood to reason that the other tributes would be able to hear _them_.

Ti shook his head. "A little longer, I think. Something doesn't seem right."

 _Besides the fact that we're trapped in an arena full of tributes who want to kill us?_ That was what he _wanted_ to say. What came out instead was, "What do you mean?"

"Remember what happened during the interviews?"

Retro hesitated, trying to figure out what Ti might be talking about. He remembered _his_ interview, of course. Everything afterwards was sort of a blur. Had something happened during Ti's interview? Retro shook his head. "Which part?"

"The girl from Eight – the one who's in there right now," Ti hissed back. "She didn't even make it through her interview. She burst out crying, and one of my district partners ended up going out there to help her."

Now that was beginning to ring some bells. "And that's why you think it's a bit odd that she … well, killed someone?"

"A bit, yeah."

Retro shook his head. "She was probably scared, just like the rest of us."

Ti bristled. "I'm not scared."

 _Right._ David was dead. Another tribute had been killed in the next room. There could be any number of other tributes nearby, and they had no way to defend themselves. And he was supposed to believe that Ti wasn't afraid at all?

It was probably just for the cameras, of course. He wanted to look brave for the audience. For the Capitol. Or maybe for his family. Retro smiled. "If you say so."

Ti smirked. "I'll do more than just say so." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to an even lower whisper.

"I have an idea."

* * *

 **Carolina Katzung  
** **District Eight Mentor**

"So whose idea was the parachute?"

Carolina slid into a seat next to Lander on the couch. Lander smirked. "Vester's, if you'll believe that. Well, it was his idea to send both of them something. It was Harakuise's idea to mix up the parachutes."

"Vester's idea," Carolina repeated, letting that sink in. It didn't quite make sense. "Why?"

Lander shrugged. "Why not? His tribute's dead, and he only had one ally. Might as well try to keep him alive, I suppose." There was silence for a moment, followed by a chuckle. "Look, I didn't exactly grill him about _why_ he was helping, Care. It was a good arrangement all around, so … Why not?"

"You really think it'll last?"

Lander shook his head. "Nothing lasts. Especially when the Gamemakers decide to stick their noses into things."

Carolina nodded. He was certainly right about that. Maybe Klaudia's alliance hadn't been the most solid to begin with, but the Gamemakers had seen to it that it didn't last long at all. But why? Sure, they hadn't done anything particularly exciting, but there were other groups that hadn't made a move yet.

Maybe they'd just gotten unlucky. They were the only ones who had found the food, after all. Maybe the Gamemakers would have done the same thing no matter which group had found their way to that room. Maybe.

Or maybe it was payback. Retribution for what Klaudia's father had done during the reaping. But if that was the case, why was she still alive? Why had they sent the package to _her_? Maybe one of the boys had done something, but she couldn't imagine what.

"There isn't always a reason." Lander's arm wrapped around her shoulders, and Carolina couldn't help a smile. He'd never liked to waste time trying to work out the reasons behind the Gamemakers' actions. Sometimes things made sense; sometimes they didn't. And Lander was perfectly fine with that.

But there _had_ to be a reason. Some Capitolites were a bit quirky, maybe, but they were still human. Their actions had reasons behind them. Not always logical reasons, but _reasons._ And if she could figure out _why_ the Gamemakers were going after Klaudia…

Then what? What could she do about it? Yes, Klaudia had killed, but that wasn't likely to be enough to draw in sponsors, especially now that she had lost her allies. _Lost_. She had killed one ally, which had frightened away the other. It was too early in the Games to be without allies. Far too early, especially with this many tributes. Even during her Games…

Carolina shook her head. It hadn't taken much longer than that for her own alliance to dissolve. Near the end of the second day, the three of them had been running from a large mutt. She'd realized they weren't all going to make it. That the mutt wouldn't stop until it caught someone.

So she had made sure that it wasn't her. She'd pushed her youngest ally – Maeren, the girl from Ten – down in the path of the mutts. Koray had gone back for her. Only Carolina had survived the night.

Maybe Klaudia wasn't so different from her, after all.

"You all right?" Lander's voice cut through her memories.

"Yeah," Carolina answered reflexively.

Lander smirked. "Liar."

"Yeah."

Her husband handed her a drink. "Maybe she'll get lucky."

Carolina took a drink. "Right. And maybe Ti's plan _doesn't_ involve killing her."

"They don't have any weapons," Lander reasoned. "She does."

That was true. But there were two of them. One of her. Eventually, she would have to sleep. Eventually, they would be able to make their move.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

" _He's here in double trust; first, as I am his kinsman and his subject, strong both against the deed; then, as his host, who should against his murderer shut the door, not bear the knife myself."_


	36. Cheaply Bought

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Not a whole lot to say here, aside from "Yay for snow days!" We got off early today, and we're off tomorrow as well, which gave me the time I needed to sit down and edit this. At least all this snow is good for something. ;)

* * *

 **Day Two  
** **Cheaply Bought**

* * *

 **Sabine Plecity  
** **District Five Mentor**

It was only a matter of time.

Sabine stretched her arms as Oliver took a seat beside her. "She's getting restless," he observed.

Sabine shrugged. "She's not the only one. Once the others have rested, they'll be just as ready to move on as Macauley is." After taking the first watch, Macauley had slept only an hour or two before volunteering to take another, relieving a sleepy Genevieve of her duties. She'd been pacing back and forth across the room for at least half an hour now.

It hadn't been so bad until the knocking had started.

It was faint – just loud enough for her to be able to tell which direction it was coming from – and it was clearly driving her up the wall. "You think she'll follow it?" Oliver asked casually.

Sabine chuckled. "That's not really the question. It won't be long before she just _has_ to do something. It's only a matter of whether she's going to follow it on her own or wake up the others, too."

Oliver shook his head. "Next round of drinks says she'll investigate by herself first – unless, of course, you send her a little something to convince her otherwise. Then all bets are off."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you know who's making that noise."

Sabine nodded. The noise was coming from the next room, where Emmett was tapping on the door with a dagger. Quietly. Methodically. Just loudly enough to get someone's attention. "That's exactly why I'm _not_ sending her a message."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "I don't quite follow."

Sabine smiled knowingly. "You're still new at this. I may not have mentored as recently as some of the others, but I've still mentored _more_ than a lot of them. It's tempting – very tempting – to try to help your tributes out every step of the way. But what do you think would happen if I did?"

"She'd wake the others, tell them that Emmett was in the next room, and then—"

"And then it would be five on one. An easy kill. Not even much of a fight. Sure, it would keep her safe – for a little while – but who would be impressed? Who would think anything of it?"

"You're trying to help her make an impression."

Sabine smiled. "That, and … Have you noticed the door?"

"What about it?"

"Why do you think Emmett hasn't opened it, just to see if anyone was coming? Why not creak it open and shut, if he wanted to get her attention?" She shook her head. "Look at the door, Oliver. _Really_ look."

He looked again, peering into the darkness beside Emmett. "There's no—"

"Exactly."

"So he can't—"

"Right."

"So if all the Careers went in there, then—"

"That would be bad, yes."

Oliver gave her shoulder a punch. "Stop finishing my sentences."

Sabine smirked. "Then talk faster."

Oliver grinned. "Touche." He leaned back in his seat. "You should do this more often."

Sabine chuckled. "Don't say that until we see how this turns out. There are still plenty of ways it could go wrong, and there are twenty-six tributes left, after all."

"And four of them are ours," Oliver pointed out.

That was true. And as much as she tried to ignore it, it was _nice_ to have one of the younger mentors – one of the Career mentors – say that she was doing a good job. That she should do this _more_. It had been accepted as a given, once the Career system had been firmly established, that _they_ would be the ones doing the mentoring. And most of the time, that was probably for the best. They'd already worked closely with the tributes, after all, and spent time getting to know them. She was a Victor from a different time. A simpler time. The Games were different now, and required a different sort of mentoring.

Still, there were times when she missed this.

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18  
** **District Two**

She was almost starting to miss the cawing sound.

Margo rolled over a little, trying to ignore the uneasy silence. The birds had gone quiet a while ago, with only a slight rattling of their cages every now and then to remind her that she and Mae weren't alone. Mae was keeping watch, which meant she _should_ be able to sleep, but every little noise jolted her back awake. Every little rustling from the birds, or every time Mae stood up to stretch. It was just _too_ quiet.

Finally, Margo sat up a little. "Maybe I should keep watch for a while. I don't think I'm going to be able to get to sleep."

Mae couldn't help a chuckle. "That was why _I_ offered to take the first watch. I don't think I'll have any better luck – not with all these birds watching us."

Margo nodded. It was a silly thing to worry about, of course. Yes, the birds were watching them, but so was all of Panem. Their families. Their friends. Their mentors. The Gamemakers. Why should a bunch of stupid birds make a difference?

But, somehow, they did. There was something about their eyes, or maybe about the way the light from the torches was reflecting off them. Something wasn't quite right. It was as if they were waiting for something.

Margo shook her head. She was just getting jumpy. And maybe that was normal, but it was something they couldn't afford right now. It was only the first night of the Games, after all. If she was already this uneasy…

Just then, something caught her eye. Mae's eyes were growing wider, staring into the darkness behind Margo. "What?" Margo asked, turning around. It was just a bird. Just another big, black bird perched on its cage.

Perched _on_ its cage.

 _Shit._ The bird was out of its cage. How had that happened? Margo's gaze flew around the room. Several of the cages' doors were open, as if they had simply been let loose. Margo clenched her fists. Of course they had. She reached down and scooped up the spear at her feet. They were just birds, but…

But they were mutts. And if they were making a move, it was because the Gamemakers wanted them to. Wanted to drive the two of them somewhere. But where? They had to figure it out quickly, before—

Just then, one of the birds swooped down towards her. Margo swung her spear, but not quickly enough. The bird's talons slashed across her arm. "Run!" Mae called as another one of the birds flapped towards her, grazing her shoulder. Margo took off towards the nearest door – the one facing away from the cornucopia. If the other Careers were still there, the safest direction to run was away. Surely the Gamemakers weren't trying to drive them _towards_ the Career pack.

At the very least, they didn't seem interested in killing them – not yet. The birds were aiming for their arms, their legs. One clutched a clump of her hair in its talons as she dove through the door. Mae was right on her heels, and the pair of them slammed the door shut behind them. "That should hold them," Mae gasped.

 _Only if the Gamemakers want it to._ Margo slumped to the ground, clutching her arm. Only then did she get a good look around, and almost burst out laughing. Mae _was_ laughing, taking in the sight around them. "You think they meant this as a hint?" Mae asked.

Margo nodded, looking around at the weapons. Apparently, this was the armory. Giant-sized weapons lined the walls, along with a few smaller versions littered across the floor. It was practically a second cornucopia full of weapons. There didn't seem to be any other supplies, but they still had enough food to last them a while, and bandages enough to take care of what the birds had done.

Not that they particularly needed weapons, either, but that wasn't the point. It wasn't about the supplies they needed. The Gamemakers were trying to give them a push. Well, maybe now it was a _shove_. Either way, she could take a hint. "All right, then," she agreed, pulling some bandages from her pack. "Let's take care of these cuts, and then see who else is nearby." They were Careers, after all – or, at least, the audience wanted to believe they were.

Maybe it was time to start acting like it.

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14  
** **District Two**

Maybe it was time to investigate, after all.

Darian gripped his dagger tightly as he ventured closer to the door that led away from the cornucopia. For a while, he and Elliot had thought they'd heard squawking noises coming from that direction. Then there had been silence, but now … now the squawking was even louder, and he was sure he'd heard someone scream.

"Think we should go check it out?"

Darian nearly jumped as he turned towards Elliot, who was standing behind him. "I thought you were getting some sleep."

Elliot shrugged. "Well, I _was_. Hard to sleep with all that racket. So what do you say? Want to go have a look?"

Darian raised an eyebrow. "There's screaming, and your first thought is that we should go _towards_ it?"

"Screaming means other tributes," Elliot pointed out.

"Maybe. Or maybe it means mutts that sound like tributes. That squawking certainly wasn't any tribute I've ever heard. Besides, if there _are_ both mutts and tributes, don't you think we would have heard a cannon by now?"

"Maybe," Elliot reasoned. "Or maybe they're not dead yet. Maybe the Gamemakers are waiting for us to come along and finish them off."

 _Finish them off_. Darian's stomach churned. He didn't _want_ to see what the mutts had done to whoever was out there. "Well, then they can wait a little longer. The others left us in charge of the cornucopia."

Elliot rolled his eyes. "Oh, come _on_. No one's tried to sneak in all night. They all know better. It won't take long. Just _one_ room. We go in one other room, see if we find anyone. If not, we can come right back."

Darian opened his mouth to object, but nothing came out. Elliot was right; the night had been rather uneventful. And if the two of them weren't going to get any sleep anyway…

Elliot turned his spear over in his hands. "Tell you what. I'm going. If you want to come along, you're welcome. If not … well, I'll be right back." With that, he strode through the door.

 _Damn it_. There was no way he _couldn't_ follow now. If he did, he would look soft. Maybe he _was_ soft. The thought of what they might find in the next room made him sick. But _not_ going would mean admitting that to the audience. To the Gamemakers. Sure, he'd proven that he was willing to kill in the heat of the moment, but this … this was different. This was _hunting._ Sure, it was hunting prey that was probably already injured, but it was still hunting.

As he followed Elliot, however, the sound of squawking seemed to die down. Maybe the mutts had done their work. Maybe the Gamemakers were trying to make the sound a bit harder for them to follow.

Slowly, Darian's eyes adjusted to the light. The candles seemed a bit brighter in this room. Or maybe it was just the fact that the light was reflecting off the coins, the diamonds, the treasure all around them. Plenty of treasure, but no sign of birds.

"There!" Elliot called, pointing to a door on the far end of the room. Sure enough, sitting there by the door was a bird. A _big_ bird. It was pitch black – maybe a crow or a raven, but bigger than any he'd ever seen. "That way."

 _One room._ That was what Elliot had said. But how were they supposed to ignore such an obvious clue? Darian sighed as he followed Elliot into the next room, which was full of cages. But the birds that had been _in_ the cages – where were they?

Elliot headed for the stairs on the far side of the room. "There! I bet these lead up. Up and maybe _out_."

"Out?"

"Out of the castle. That's where I'd go, if I was a bird."

"Or someone trying to get _away_ from some birds," Darian agreed. "All right, then. We check the stairs. But if there's no one there, we go _back_."

Elliot grinned. "Deal. And who knows." He fingered his spear, flashing as smile at Darian.

"Maybe we'll get lucky."

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

Could he really get that lucky?

Consus held his breath as he took a cautious step into the throne room. There didn't seem to be any Careers around. Would they really have left the cornucopia unguarded? Maybe they were simply on the other side of the pile of supplies. Maybe. Or maybe they had left. That seemed like a bit too much to hope for, but if they were here … where were they? Why hadn't they attacked him yet?

Sure, he was being quiet. As quiet as he could be. But if they were keeping watch for tributes, it was only a matter of time before they happened to look in his direction. There wasn't much to hide behind – not until he got quite a bit closer, at least. They'd piled all the supplies in the center of the room. Easy to guard, and easy for them to hide behind, if they wanted to.

Consus took another step closer. Then another. He was more than halfway now – closer to the supplies than he was to the door that led back to his allies. If they were going to attack him, wouldn't now be the time to do it? He wouldn't be able to run – not quickly enough to get away from them.

Still, there was nothing. No attack. Not even any movement. _Okay_. Consus crept closer to the pile of supplies beneath the giant throne. It wouldn't take him long to grab something and run. That was all he had to do. It was already _more_ than he had said he'd do. He'd just said he was going to have a look around. But if there was really nobody there, his allies would be expecting him to come back with something.

And the audience … they certainly wouldn't approve of him returning empty-handed. Besides, he was hungry, and there was _so_ much food. Would the Careers even notice if any was gone?

Even if they did, they would have no way of knowing who took it. And what did they expect if they hadn't left anyone to guard it? Consus knelt by the pile and chose a backpack. As quietly as he could, he began stuffing food inside. Loaves of bread. Crackers. Dried meat and fruit. Anything he could grab. Bottles of water. Once the backpack was so full he could barely close it, he turned his attention to the weapons.

He had his pick. He hadn't really expected that. But he needed something he could carry. He quickly stuffed a few knives in his pockets – enough for the rest of the group. Then he chose a few of the smaller weapons – a hatchet, a dagger, a cleaver, and a small mace. Something for each of them. That would do for now. And none of them were weapons the Careers were likely to miss. If any of them had a particular weapon they preferred, after all, they had probably taken it with them. That was what _he_ would do.

What he _was_ doing.

Consus smiled a little. There were bound to be cameras in every inch of the room trained on him, capturing every moment of his daring theft. He and his allies would have enough to eat for days, and it was all thanks to him. _He_ was doing this. Not Aleyn or Wes or even Charu. _Him_. That would set him apart. And, even better, it would get the audience's attention without getting him noticed by the _Careers_.

 _Not too fast._ First, he had to make it out of here. There weren't any Careers around _now_ , but there was no telling when they might be coming back, and he'd already stayed longer than the others had probably expected him to. Consus shouldered the bag full of food, gripped the weapons tightly, and headed back towards his allies.

Across the room. Through the door. When he saw them, he let out a deep breath. He'd made it. The others were grinning. "How—" Aleyn started.

Consus grinned. "No one was there."

"No one?" Charu asked, her eyes wide.

Wes chuckled. "You think he would've had time to grab this much if someone was there? Good timing, Consus. And I see you got us some weapons."

Consus hesitated. _He_ had done all the work, and Wes just assumed that the weapons were for all of them. He'd meant to share them, of course, but still…

Consus shrugged off the thought, laying the weapons on the floor and opening the bag of food. The mace he set to one side, and the others took the hint. Wes took the hatchet, and Charu took the dagger, leaving the cleaver for Aleyn, who quickly put it to use chopping up one of the larger slabs of meat. Soon, they were all eating.

Consus took a large bite of one of the loaves of bread. The knives were still in his pocket. His little secret. They were all armed, and the sight of four armed tributes would probably deter pretty much anyone besides the Careers. But he deserved … something. Something of his own.

Any of them could have snuck back to get some supplies, it was true. But _he_ was the one who had. He was the _only_ one who had offered to. That meant something. Right now, of course, it meant that they had plenty to eat, but it was more than that. If they had a chance now – _any_ chance – it was because of _him_.

And no one was going to forget it.

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

She would never be able to forget.

Klaudia wiped the tears from her eyes as her gaze strayed to Connor's body. No one had come to collect it. Maybe no one was going to. That sometimes happened in indoor arenas. The bodies would sit there until the tributes nearby had gone. Then they just … disappeared. It always happened off-camera, but she'd always assumed someone came to get them. They wouldn't just _leave_ Connor's body here.

Well, maybe they would. Sometimes they did. Last year, they had just left the bodies to rot. And they certainly wouldn't collect it as long as she was here. Klaudia drew her knees up to her chest, her whole body shivering. She didn't _want_ to leave. But she certainly didn't want to _stay_. Not with Connor's body here to remind her of…

Of the fact that she'd killed him. Connor was dead, and Skyton was gone. _She_ had done that; there was no way around it. Yes, Connor had attacked her, but she'd had options. She could have just _given_ him the medicine. If she'd only known that Skyton hadn't needed it…

Klaudia took a deep breath. Okay. Okay, she _had_ to leave. But where was she supposed to go? There were three doors. One of them was the way they had come from. That led back to the cornucopia, and certainly wasn't where she wanted to go. One of them was the way Skyton had gone. Part of her wanted to follow him, but…

But she wasn't ready. She didn't want to see him. Not yet. The third door was off in a corner, but there were also some stairs. Stairs that led up … somewhere. Where, exactly, she wasn't sure, but _up_ … that didn't really sound like somewhere she wanted to go, either. Up might mean outside the castle. Out in the _open_. And once she was up there, then what?

No, that wasn't a good option, either. Not that there _were_ any good options. She didn't really want to go _anywhere_. But she didn't want to stay…

Suddenly, something caught her eye. Something _under_ the staircase. Slowly, she stood up and made her way over to it. It was a door – a trap door of some sort – hidden under the staircase itself. If up wasn't the way she wanted to go, then maybe down would be better. It certainly seemed like a better place to hide, and that was all she really wanted to do right now.

Klaudia took a deep breath. There _was_ no hiding – not really. Not from the Gamemakers. Not from the audience. And not from herself. But hiding from the other tributes … well, maybe that was the next best thing.

Klaudia reached down and gave the handle a tug. The opening wasn't very large – maybe wide enough for two people to get through, at the most. Stairs led down into the darkness below. Klaudia took a deep breath. This was it. She had a bit of food stuffed into her pockets, and the knife the sponsors had sent, along with the extra vial of medicine. Just in case.

Right. Just in case there was more poisoned food somewhere. In all likelihood, she wouldn't need it again. But that didn't mean she had to leave it for someone else to find. Maybe if someone else happened to stumble across the food, they would eat some of the meat. Maybe…

Klaudia's stomach churned. Was she really _hoping_ for one of the other tributes to be poisoned? Maybe. That was certainly better than having to kill them herself. But anyone who was desperate enough to eat food with a dead body nearby probably wouldn't be much of a threat to her, anyway.

Klaudia shook her head. That wasn't her problem. Right now, she wanted to get as far away from that dead body as possible. Slowly, she lowered herself through the opening and found her footing on the stairs. Then she closed the door behind her.

It wasn't as dark as she'd expected. There was a light coming from somewhere below. The staircase wound down, down down, farther and farther below. Finally, she could see candles. A hallway.

Not just a hallway. A maze. Farther down the hall, she could see several other paths branching off in different directions. Klaudia glanced this way and that, but there didn't seem to be anyone else around. Maybe she was the only one who'd managed to find her way down here. Or maybe there were other tributes farther along one of the paths. It would be easy, _so_ easy, to get lost down here.

But maybe that was what she wanted.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

This was what she'd wanted.

Macauley glanced back at the other Careers one more time as she turned the door handle. The tapping had stopped a little while ago, but that just made it even worse. There was _someone_ behind that door. Someone who had been trying to get her attention, perhaps. Maybe even someone who was hoping to lure another tribute in, not realizing that the only ones around were Careers. It was exactly the chance she'd been waiting for.

So why was she hesitating?

She could wake the others, of course. Whoever was behind that door, the five of them could certainly handle them together. But that would be … well, a bit unsatisfying. Sure, the five of them had worked well together as a team so far. They'd hunted down the girl from Three, but _still_. That had been almost too easy.

This … this was exciting. It was a chance to prove herself. To prove she had what it took to take down a tribute by herself. Sure, she'd made a kill during the bloodbath, but that had been the little boy from Twelve. Did that really count?

Certainly not in the sponsors' eyes – not when Etora already had _three_ kills. No, she had to do this. And she had to do it _alone_. Whoever was behind the door, they would be prepared. If they were trying to lure a tribute in, it meant they were probably armed. But if they were trying to lure someone in rather than attacking outright, it meant there probably weren't very _many_ of them. Probably just one person. Two, at the most. She could handle two.

Couldn't she?

That was what the audience would want to know. What the sponsors would want to know.

But more importantly, it was what _she_ wanted to know. What she _needed_ to know. In the end, this wasn't about the sponsors or the audience or the Gamemakers or even her mentor. And it certainly wasn't about her allies. It was about _her_. She needed to do this alone.

She _wanted_ to do this alone.

As quietly as she could, careful not to wake the others, Macauley opened the door. She couldn't see anyone on the other side. Immediately, she glanced to the left and the right, in case someone was waiting to ambush her. Nothing. No one. Silently, she closed the door behind her.

Then she heard a chuckle. "Perfect."

Macauley gripped her dagger tightly. She had a few knives tucked in her pocket and a hatchet hanging from her belt, but she suddenly felt _very_ exposed. The voice had come from somewhere in the darkness on the other side of the room. Whoever was here with her, he was keeping his distance. "What's perfect?" she asked, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked.

"You didn't notice it, either. Rather gratifying, really, to know that I wasn't the only one who didn't even bother to look."

"At what?"

"The door."

"What about it?"

Another chuckle. "Look again."

Macauley glanced at the door, then back at the figure in the shadows. He hadn't moved. She'd assumed he would take the opportunity to attack while she was distracted. She looked back at the door, and her grip on her dagger tightened as she realized.

There was no handle on this side.

"That's why you were tapping at the door," Macauley reasoned. "You wanted someone to come along and let you out."

"Not at all." The figure stepped into the light – moonlight that was streaming down from the window. "Why would I want to leave? I have everything I could want in here."

Macauley raised an eyebrow. "You found food in here?"

Another chuckle. That laugh was _really_ starting to get on her nerves. "I didn't mean food." The figure twirled something in his hands. It took Macauley a moment to realize that it was a whip. Finally, she could make out who he was. One of the boys from Four. Emmett. Okay. District Four. So he might have some training. But if a whip was the best weapon he had, she certainly had an advantage there.

Then she saw the table. It was full of all sorts of instruments. Knives, chains, whips, and some other instruments she couldn't quite make out in the dark. Okay, so he was _definitely_ armed. But so was she. This was what she'd wanted, after all – the chance to prove herself against someone who actually knew what they were doing. She'd wanted a fight.

And now she was going to get one.

Macauley took a step closer. "Well, it looks like I've got everything I need, too. Maybe I'm trapped here with you, but that also means _you're_ trapped with me. And if push comes to shove, I have allies outside waiting for me."

Emmett scoffed. "Then why didn't you bring them along? Why not yell for them now, if you need them?"

"Because I _don't_ need them." She gripped her dagger, circling around the table. Emmett hadn't moved since stepping into the light. Maybe it was some sort of trap. Maybe he was just waiting for her to make the first move. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the fight. Macauley grinned.

"What are we waiting for?"

* * *

 **Emmett Darsier, 18  
** **District Four**

"What are we waiting for?"

Emmett stepped to the side as the girl lunged, her dagger swinging towards him. She was quick, but not quick enough to hurt him. She lunged again, and again he backed up. He didn't have to attack her – not yet. He just had to wait for her to make a mistake. Then she would be his.

It was that sort of patience that the girl in front of him clearly lacked. She attacked again, and this time came a bit closer to hitting him. He ducked behind the table. The girl growled. Clearly, she had come expecting a fight. And, eventually, she would get what she wanted.

She would get _more_ than what she wanted.

For now, he simply backed up again. Then again. She was driving him towards the wall, but that was all right. The next time she swung, he ducked beneath the blow, then made his move. The whip curled around the girl's leg, and she cried out in pain before staggering backwards, her leg bleeding. Not much – certainly not enough to hamper her next attack. But it would make her think twice about trying to corner him again.

Her dagger, while certainly sharp enough to cause more damage, didn't have the same sort of reach as his whip. The girl backed up a little, considering. Emmett grinned. She hadn't been expecting this sort of fight. That was the trouble with Career training, really. Swords. Spears. Daggers. But there were other sorts of weapons – other sorts of _tools_. Things no one thought of until they didn't _have_ any traditional weapons at their disposal.

The girl lunged again, undeterred, reaching into her pocket with her free hand and pulling out a knife. He ducked just as she flung it, but not quite quickly enough. The knife grazed his shoulder. Emmett grinned. This felt _good_. Almost as good as it used to during training. "Nice shot," he remarked coolly, taking another step towards her. "How many of those do you have?"

The girl shrugged. "Enough."

She lunged again, her dagger slicing across his arm. But that move brought her close enough. His whip lashed out, curling around her arm, sending the dagger flying. She lunged for it, but he was faster. The whip lashed out again, curling around her neck. She gasped in surprise as he drew closer, pulling the whip tighter. It wouldn't be long before—

Just then, the whip snapped, and Emmett staggered backwards. Another knife was in the girl's hand, and she quickly untangled the whip from around her neck, scooping the dagger back up and lunging at him. "I _told_ you I had enough of them," she growled as the dagger plunged into his side.

Emmett couldn't hold back a cry of pain as she drew the dagger out. Blood immediately began to flow from the wound. He took a few steps backwards towards the table, hoping to be able to reach another weapon. But the girl dove for his legs, pulling him to the ground. Blood covered her hands. Blood _everywhere_.

Too much blood. He was getting dizzy. He barely felt the knife against his throat. He reached up, trying to grab her hand, but she quickly pinned his arm with one of her knees. "Do it, then," he hissed. "Get it over with."

For a moment, she hesitated. Maybe she was considering trying to draw it out. To make the moment last, make it as painful as she could. That was what _he_ had been planning to do, after all. Those instruments on the table hadn't just been for show, and she clearly knew it. But there was already too much blood. It was too late for that, even if she wanted to.

And she didn't – he could see that. She nodded a little as the knife plunged into his throat. He gasped, but it came out as more of a gurgling sound. Blood poured from his throat. Blood in his mouth, his throat, his lungs. It _hurt_ , but not as much as he'd thought. Not as much as he'd wanted it to. The sound of blood pounding in his ears was growing fainter. Slower.

He almost thought he heard the cannon.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

She'd almost managed to doze off a little when she heard the cannon.

Nephelle sat up immediately, startled. That was ten cannons so far. Ten tributes who were dead, and it was only the first—

Her thoughts were interrupted by another sound. The anthem? Surely she couldn't have slept through the entire day. But, sure enough, a face appeared on the wall. It belonged to the girl from Five. One of the Careers. The _first_ one of the Careers, she was pretty sure – or, at least, the first of the Career _pack_. But that only brought their total down to six, unless…

The second face was one of the girls from Eight. The one who had broken down crying during the interview. Maybe that wasn't a surprise, really. More of a surprise that she'd lasted this long.

 _This long_. Nephelle rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She wasn't even sure how long 'this long' was anymore. Not two days, certainly, which meant that there was something wrong with the anthem.

No, not something wrong. Just something different. Whatever was going on, the Gamemakers were certainly doing it deliberately. They didn't make mistakes – not with something as important as this. But if the amount of time between the anthems wasn't going to represent a day, then what _did_ it stand for? _Half_ a day? Some other fraction? Was that why she'd had such a hard time getting to sleep? Maybe it hadn't even been a whole day yet.

Slowly, Nephelle got to her feet and made her way to the other side of the room, closer to the door. Whatever the amount of time between the faces appearing, the Gamemakers were obviously trying to disorient them. Throw off their sense of time. And it was certainly working. She was tired, but she couldn't sleep. She was confused. She was hungry.

But most of all, she was thirsty. She hadn't expected that. It was the _Hunger_ Games, after all. A lot of the focus was on trying to find food, because water … well, water was usually a bit easier to find, particularly in outdoor arenas. There was usually _some_ sort of pond or river or lake or _something_. And if not, it was only a matter of time before it rained.

But indoors … this was different. She wasn't likely to just stumble across a large pool of water somewhere. And she wasn't likely to get anything from the sponsors, either. Both of her allies were dead. She hadn't made a single kill. She had no supplies, no weapons, no reason for the sponsors to support her. Nothing that would convince them that she had a chance.

Nephelle took a deep breath. She'd been hoping that if she waited here long enough, she would think of something. But there wasn't anything in this room that was going to help her, and it would probably be a while before anyone came looking. She'd thought that was a good thing; it meant no one would find her. But it also meant that she wouldn't find anyone else.

Not unless she went looking for them.

Nephelle took a few more steps towards the door. She didn't _want_ to find any of the other tributes. That meant she would have to fight, and she didn't have any weapons. She didn't have any way to defend herself if someone else attacked her. But maybe … well, maybe she could find someone who was asleep. Someone with supplies. Maybe.

At the very least, it would show the sponsors – and the Gamemakers – that she was willing to make a move. Maybe if she proved that she was ready to do something, they would give her a hint. Maybe they would help her find something useful.

Right.

Nephelle shook her head as her hand found the door handle. There were still twenty-five tributes left. The Gamemakers weren't going to help her. Even Hazel and Casper wouldn't be able to help her unless the sponsors decided she was worth their time. She had to give them a reason.

She didn't have any other choice.

Nephelle swallowed hard as she turned the door handle and took a few cautious steps out into the darkness. There didn't seem to be anyone around. There was a faint glow in the room as the light from the candles flickered off the instruments. _Musical_ instruments. She'd seen them on her way from the cornucopia, of course, but she hadn't paid them much attention. She'd been much more interested in getting away from the other tributes.

Now she got a better look. Not that it helped. Some of the instruments were made of metal. Some were made of wood. None of them looked like they would be useful as a weapons, and none of them were made of anything edible, so they weren't worth her time right now. Still, having _something_ to hit someone with in a fight would be better than nothing.

So she chose one of the smaller metal instruments. A horn of some sort. There. At least now she had something that might look like a weapon – at least from a distance, in the dark, as long as she kept it partially hidden. Nephelle sighed. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was something.

It was a start.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

"I guess she decided to get a head start."

Genevieve glanced around as the others shook themselves awake. The cannon had woken them, and only then had they realized that Macauley was gone. "Where would she have gone?" Justus muttered.

As if in answer, the anthem began to play. Genevieve glanced around, confused. It _couldn't_ have been a whole day since the last anthem. Even if Macauley hadn't woken any of them to take over her shift, they _couldn't_ have slept through the entire day.

Could they?

She opened her mouth, but her question died on her lips when she saw the first face. Macauley. Genevieve looked around at the others. Justus and Mae looked just as surprised as she was, but there was a hint of a smile on Etora's face. Could she have had something to do with this? No. No, if she'd killed Macauley, the body would still be here. But if she'd goaded Macauley into venturing out on her own…

But why? It wasn't as if Etora had anything to prove. She already had more kills than anyone else in the pack. Why would she want to get rid of Macauley? It was still far too early in the Games for the Careers to start turning on each other.

Wasn't it?

Genevieve instinctively reached for the nearest weapon – a rapier she'd kept at her side while she slept. But none of the others seemed ready to make a move. They simply watched as the next face appeared. It was one of the girls from Eight. No big surprises there. Still, something seemed … off.

Genevieve shook the thought from her head. She was probably imagining things. The girl's face faded, and the last notes of the anthem echoed off the walls. "Two," Mae muttered.

Justus turned. "You think the fact that there were two deaths had something to do with it? When the anthem played?"

Mae twirled a few strands of her hair. "Maybe. Both times, it's been right after a cannon. That can't be a coincidence."

"But the first time, it was after _eight_ cannons," Etora pointed out. "Eight, then two? That doesn't make any sense. Maybe—"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Genevieve blurted out before she could stop herself. "Macauley is _dead_! We have no idea what happened to her, and you're just … analyzing things. Don't you think we should try to figure out who killed her? Or what killed her? Or—"

Etora shook her head. "Isn't it obvious? She got tired of waiting for us to decide to move on. She wandered off. Something went wrong. That sort of thing happens to Careers who decide to split off from the pack too early."

"And you don't think that's a bit convenient?" Genevieve demanded.

Etora raised an eyebrow. "Convenient? For who? Me? You? I don't think so. She certainly wasn't incompetent. She wasn't a burden on our alliance. Why would any of us want her dead? If you're going to accuse me of getting an ally killed, the least you could do is come up with a good reason."

"I'm not accusing you of—"

" _Don't you think that's a bit convenient?"_ Etora echoed. "What _else_ could you have meant by that? If you've got something to say, say it!"

"Easy, easy," Justus interrupted, stepping between the pair of them. "Calm down. I think we're all a bit on edge, after what just— Mae?" he asked suddenly, cutting himself off. "Are you all right?"

Genevieve glanced over at Mae, who was shaking her head, her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. "Too much," Mae muttered, not even glancing up at Justus. "Too much, too much."

"Great," Etora scoffed.

"Look, why don't we head back to the cornucopia," Justus offered. "Mae can trade places with Elliot or Darian, and we can set off in a different direction. I don't think there's anyone around here."

Genevieve held her tongue. There _was_ someone nearby. Someone who had managed to pick off a Career and get away with it. But they all needed to get moving. To do something. To look like they were making progress. "Okay," she agreed, shooting Etora a glance.

They would have to sort the rest out later.

* * *

 **Ti Bulgur, 14  
** **District Nine**

They could figure out what was going on with the faces later.

Ti nodded to Retro as the two of them stepped through the door to the next room. They'd been hoping to wait a little longer before making their move, but that last cannon, and then the faces … they had to get moving quickly. The sooner they got a good look at the next room, the sooner they might be able to figure out what was going on.

They'd been fairly certain, after all, that it was one of the boys from Ten who had died. They'd _heard_ the girl from Eight calling for the other one to stay. But the faces … the girl from Eight and the girl from Five. Something was wrong. And they needed more information in order to figure out what.

Ti clenched his fists as they moved farther into the room. There was food, just like they'd been expecting from what they'd heard. And there was a body. Or, at least, it certainly _looked_ like a dead body. One of the boys from Ten. The body had been rolled over onto its back, the chest covered in blood. But his face…

His face _hadn't_ appeared during the anthem. But he certainly looked dead. Ti took a few steps closer to the body. He gave it a kick. Then another – harder. He knelt down and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The boy was dead.

Which meant the faces were wrong.

"I don't understand," Retro muttered, looking around. "He's dead. So where is _she_?"

"Maybe she left," Ti offered. There were a few more doors leading out of the room, as well as some stairs leading up. She could have gone anywhere. He checked behind one of the larger piles of food. Then another. Nothing. No one. Besides, if she _was_ here waiting for them, she would certainly have attacked them by now.

Ti took a seat, shaking his head. He should have been relieved. He hadn't really wanted to fight anyone, after all. But just walking in and finding all this food … It seemed a bit too easy. What would the audience think? What would the _Gamemakers_ think?

Ti shook the thought from his head. It wasn't _their_ fault the girl had decided to leave. They'd been ready to fight. He hadn't _wanted_ to – and he was certain Retro hadn't wanted to, either – but they'd been prepared to, if it was what they had to do in order to get food. Surely that counted for something, even if they hadn't actually had to do it.

Something. But not as much as an actual fight would have. Not as much as _killing_ someone would have counted. In the audience's eyes, they were still just a pair of little boys who had gotten lucky.

And that luck would only last so long.

Retro reached for one of the loaves of bread, eyeing it suspiciously. "It was just the meat that was poisoned, right?"

Ti shrugged. "That's what they said. And that's why we came in here, after all. It's be a waste _not_ to eat it."

Retro turned the loaf over in his hands. "You first."

Ti hesitated. But only for a moment. He couldn't afford to look uncertain. They'd been willing to fight – willing to _kill_ – in order to get this food. They couldn't just _not_ eat it.

So he took a big bite of one of the loaves of bread, then picked up an apple and took a few bites of that. "See?" he asked, swallowing. "Perfectly safe."

That was enough to convince Retro. Never mind that the others had waited hours without any ill effect before the sponsors had sent them medicine. The two of them ate their fill. Only once they had both settled back against the wall did Retro speak up again. "Do you think that means both the faces were wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the girl from Eight isn't dead; _he_ is." He gestured at the body on the other side of the room. "So do you think that means Macauley's alive, too?"

"Maybe." Of course. They were from the same district, after all. Of course he would be concerned about his district partner.

His district partner who was a _Career_. His district partner who had killed David. Retro leaned back against the wall, shaking his head. "It doesn't make any sense."

No. No, it didn't make sense. But maybe that was the point. Maybe the Gamemakers were just trying to confuse them. "Maybe it doesn't mean anything," Ti suggested. "Maybe it just means that we can't trust the faces to be accurate."

"Or the anthem to come at the right time," Retro added.

"Yeah," Ti agreed. "Who even knows if that was the right number of cannons?" _That_ certainly wasn't a comforting thought. But if they couldn't be sure of anything, who was to say that there hadn't been more tributes who died? Maybe the Gamemakers had simply left off the other boy's cannon? How many others might they have ignored?

Ti shook his head. "Look, there's no point in trying to figure it out right now. Let's get some sleep. I'll take the first watch, and we'll see if we can sort it out in the morning."

"If it isn't morning already," Retro muttered, but he lay down and closed his eyes. Soon, he was breathing softly, his chest moving rhythmically up and down. Ti smiled a little. At least he'd been able to get to sleep.

That was something, at least.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

At least she wouldn't have to worry about Klaudia anymore.

Mariska shook her head as her district partner's face faded from the wall. Maybe it was better this way – better for it to be over with now. Klaudia had never stood a chance – not after what had happened during the reaping.

Not that she'd wasted a lot of time worrying about what was going to happen to Klaudia. They'd decided on the train that each of them was better off on their own, and she'd never had a reason to second-guess that decision. Vashti, too, wasn't likely to lose any sleep over the fact that one of his district partners was gone. They hadn't been close. Hell, Vashti had even made fun of the rest of them during the reaping.

He certainly didn't seem upset. Barlen, however, was barely holding back tears. "You all right?" Mariska asked.

Barlen shook his head. "The second girl … She looked familiar from somewhere."

"Probably the interviews," Mariska answered patiently. "She was crying. You went onstage to help her."

"Did I?"

"Yes, you did."

"Good," Barlen said softly. "I'm glad I did that. No one should have to cry alone."

Mariska glanced over at Vashti, who pointed over at the door on the other side of the room. "Say, Barlen, how would you like to go scout out that room for us?"

Barlen immediately perked up. "Really? I mean, you really trust me to?"

"Absolutely," Vashti answered immediately, and Barlen scampered off, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd already 'scouted out' the same room twice before.

Mariska held back a chuckle. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Vashti shrugged. "Why not? It gets him out of our hair. Besides, if we let him scout out an empty room a few times, maybe he'll be less hesitant when we ask him to do it for real." He nodded to the door where Barlen had gone. "Besides, I could tell he was getting to you."

Mariska's could feel her face growing red. "That's ridiculous."

Vashti snorted. "No one should have to cry alone? Come _on_. I'm sure the audience loved it, but—"

"He was just being nice," Mariska shrugged. And that was it, really. Barlen was _nice_. There weren't many people who were kind just for the sake of _being_ kind. Most of the time, when people did something kind, they wanted something in return. Or they expected a favor later on. Barlen hadn't expected anything from Klaudia when he'd comforted her during the interviews. In fact, he'd promptly forgotten he'd even _done_ it. He'd simply done it because, in that moment, it had seemed like the right thing to do. Not a lot of people were like that. If they weren't in the Games…

But they _were_ in the Games. Which meant that, sooner or later, Barlen was going to die. And it would probably be sooner. Kindness didn't last long in the Games.

"Mariska! Vashti! Come look at this!" Barlen called from the next room. Vashti rolled his eyes as the two of them went to see what he'd 'found.' The next room was just as they'd left it the last time: rows of colored glass windows, burning candles that lined the walls, and a large rug in the center.

This time, however, Mariska could see that Barlen had pulled the rug aside. Maybe he actually _had_ found something. "Look!" He pointed at the floor. "It's a trap door."

It _was_ a trap door, with a metal handle. Mariska gave a tug, and it opened, revealing a winding staircase leading down into the darkness. Mariska gave Barlen a pat on the shoulder. "Not bad. Let's see what's down there."

"Can I go first?" Barlen asked immediately, his eyes wide with excitement.

Vashti nodded. "Of course." He'd barely spoken before Barlen started making his way down the stairs.

"Wow!" came Barlen's voice. "You _have_ to come see this."

Mariska chuckled and followed him down, with Vashti close behind her. The staircase wound down into the darkness, the hall below lit by candlelight. In front of them were paths stretching out in different directions, like a giant maze. "I'll try that direction!" Barlen grinned, picking a hallway seemingly at random.

Before he could take off, however, Vashti grabbed him by the shoulder. "Easy there. How are you planning to find your way back?"

Barlen stopped short. Clearly, he hadn't even thought of that. He looked around, eyeing the candles, but they were too high up on the walls for any of them to reach. After a moment, Barlen scurried back up the stairs and quickly returned with one of the smaller candles from the room above. "How about this?"

Vashti raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

Barlen tipped the candle to one side, dribbling a little bit of wax onto the floor. "Like bread crumbs."

"Bread crumbs?" Vashti repeated.

"Yeah. One time, my sister and I were lost in the fields, and we found a trail of bread crumbs and followed it home. I suppose we _could_ use actual bread crumbs, but that seems like a waste of food."

Vashti glanced at Mariska, who shrugged. No point, probably, in trying to figure out what bread crumbs had been doing in the field. "What happens when the candle burns out?" she asked, changing the subject.

Barlen shrugged. "Then I come back."

"Better write that down," Vashti muttered.

Barlen immediately did so, then took the candle and headed off in a completely different direction than the one he'd pointed to before. "Good thinking," Mariska said quietly.

"What?" Vashti asked.

"Reminding him to write it down." She smirked. "It's almost as if you want him to make it back."

Vashti scoffed. "No point in having a scout if they don't come back alive. He's useful, but…"

"But what?"

Vashti sighed. "But don't get attached." He shook his head.

"This isn't going to last long."

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

Maybe he should have known it wouldn't last.

Skyton leaned back against the door, his eyes closed. He'd been hiding ever since running from Klaudia earlier. Earlier? Yesterday? He wasn't really sure. He'd run into the next room, shut the door, and stayed there. It was pitch black, but that was all right. The room seemed to be completely empty. If there _was_ anyone else here, after all, wouldn't they have attacked him by now?

He'd tried to get a little sleep, but the cannon had woken him, and then the anthem. But something was clearly wrong. Klaudia's face had appeared, but not Connor's. Had the Gamemakers made a mistake? Had something happened after he'd left? But even if Klaudia _was_ dead, Connor's cannon had come before he'd run off. He was certain of that.

He wished it _wasn't_ true, of course. He wished Connor was still alive, that their alliance was still together, that all of this had simply been a bad dream. But maybe he should have seen it coming from the start. At best, Connor had tolerated Klaudia being a part of their alliance. It had been Skyton's idea to invite her, just as it had been Connor's idea to invite Arabel. Maybe neither of them should have gone looking for other allies.

Or maybe … maybe the two of them simply shouldn't have been allies to begin with. Connor's first thought after hearing that there was only enough medicine for two of them had been to attack Klaudia. What had made him think Connor would be a good ally in the first place? Maybe he was better off without any allies at all.

Skyton sighed, shaking his head. Whether he was better off this way didn't really matter now. He _didn't_ have allies, whether he wanted them or not. Arabel was dead. Connor was dead. And Klaudia…

The cannons. The faces. Obviously, he couldn't trust any of that now. The Gamemakers were playing some sort of game, and he didn't really want to go back and see if he could figure out what it was. Either Klaudia was dead, or she was still there, and he didn't want to find out which. What he really wanted was to get as far away as possible.

But there didn't seem to be any other way out of the room. Certainly there were no doors. There was a window, but it was covered with a thick black curtain that hung to the floor. There seemed to be a bit of light coming from behind it, though. Maybe it was morning now.

Skyton chuckled. For all he knew, maybe it was _noon_. If the anthem wasn't going to be a reliable way to keep track of time, then looking out the window seemed like a good place to start. Slowly, cautiously, he made his way over to the window and tugged at the curtain.

Immediately, the whole curtain slid to the floor. Light poured in, bright and sudden. Skyton nearly burst out laughing. Maybe it _was_ noon. Certainly it was well into the morning. The second day of the Games. That was something to go by, at least.

Then he heard a rustling, coming from the far side of the room. Breathing. _Heavy_ breathing. The sound was deep, more of a growl than a breath. Skyton froze. It was some sort of animal. Some sort of mutt. It had probably been in the room all along. Maybe it had been sleeping, and the sudden light had woken it. And there was nowhere to run.

Skyton took a deep breath. He might as well look. It was there, whether he looked or not. No point in _not_ looking. And no point in turning around slowly. Something was there – and, from the sound of it, moving closer.

Skyton whirled around to face the mutt. It was _big_. His head came to the mutt's shoulders – shoulders that looked, more or less, like a lion's. Not that he'd ever seen a lion up close, of course, but the arena during Presley's Games had been a boat full of all sorts of animals, and there had been lions there. The Capitol really seemed to enjoy showing footage from that one.

Skyton looked up, but the _head_ didn't look like it belonged to a lion. It had a beak, like some sort of bird. It had wings, too – large wings that stretched out from its body as the creature studied him. Skyton took a step back. Then another. But soon, he was backed up against the wall. Still, the creature made no move to attack him.

Then he saw why. There was a chain around the creature's neck, the other end attached to the wall on the far side of the room. It was already stretched as far as it would reach. Skyton took a tentative step closer. The creature snorted. "Easy there," Skyton coaxed, holding out a hand. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

The mutt snorted, as if to say, " _Like you really_ could _."_ He had no weapons. No way to defend himself if the creature decided he looked like a threat – or a snack. But if the Gamemakers wanted him dead, he would be. There was no way the creature in front of him wasn't strong enough to break through that chain – or rip it out of the wall – if the Gamemakers wanted it to. Instead, they were giving him a chance to … what?

 _Do you have a horse?_ That was what he'd asked them during his private session. One of them had started to say something, to suggest that they had something that might be similar. Was _this_ what they'd been talking about? Maybe. Skyton took another step closer, then another. The creature lowered its head, inviting him to make a move.

Reaching up, he slid a large metal pin out of place, and the collar snapped open. The mutt shook its large, feathery head, nearly knocking Skyton off his feet. Skyton staggered backwards, but the mutt took a step closer, ducking its head a little lower.

An invitation.

An invitation he wasn't allowed to refuse.

The mutt held almost perfectly still while he climbed onto its neck, positioning himself just over its shoulder blades. It _did_ almost feel like sitting on a horse. A big, feathery horse that could eat him in one gulp if it had a mind to.

But it didn't seem interested in gobbling him up just yet. Instead, the mutt snorted and drew itself up to its full height, then dug its front claws into the wall and began to climb. Skyton held on tightly as the creature climbed higher and higher, making its way to the window.

The window swung open as soon as the mutt pressed against it, which was good because the only other possibility was that it might shatter, instead. Skyton gripped the mutt's neck tightly as its head, and then its shoulders, and then the rest of its body hurtled through the window and out into the air. Part of him wanted to shut his eyes, but he resisted the urge. It was just like riding a horse.

Just like riding a horse hundreds of feet above the ground.

Skyton looked down as the mutt climbed higher into the sky. The castle didn't look quite so big from above. He could see now that there were five towers, reaching towards the sky from the stones below.

Just then, something caught his eye – a figure on top of one of the towers. A tribute. The mutt noticed, too, and immediately began to swoop back down towards the tower. Skyton held on tightly. He'd wanted to keep flying, to get as far away as he could from the other tributes.

But now he didn't have much of a choice.

* * *

 **Presley Winters  
** **District Ten Mentor**

He wouldn't have much of a choice now.

Presley glanced over at Glenn as the griffin continued to dive, Skyton hanging on for dear life. "He's not going to be able to avoid it now."

Glenn looked up. "What?"

"Killing. You don't think it's a coincidence, do you – that the griffin is bringing him right to Merrik? The Gamemakers must want him dead, even if he blamed Lena for their little stunt during the private sessions. The Careers almost found him, but he got away. Ronan and the pair from Eleven had a chance to kill him, and they didn't take it. Hell, it looked like he was going to throw himself off that tower for a while, but he didn't. So now they're sending Skyton to finish the job – and prove that he's got what it takes to be a contender."

The only question, of course, was whether or not he _did_ have what it took. He wasn't armed, of course, but neither was Merrik. And he had a griffin on his side. But, in the end, the Gamemakers would want _him_ to make the kill, not the mutt. Would he really have the guts to do it?

Presley leaned back in her seat on the couch. If he didn't have what it took, now was as good a time to find out as any. He was the only chance District Ten had now. If he turned down the opportunity for an easy kill, the Gamemakers wouldn't take that lightly. The mutt might even turn on him, if he wasn't up to the task.

Presley turned to Glenn, curious. "What do you think you would have done?"

"What do you mean?"

Presley shrugged. "Everyone knows you won your Games without killing. But if the Gamemakers had sent a mutt to bring you face-to-face with a tribute who would have been an easy kill … Do you think you would have done it?"

Glenn fell silent, and, for a moment, Presley was worried that she'd struck a nerve. "If that was the wrong thing to ask, I'm sorry. I was just curious."

Glenn chuckled. "You and me both, kiddo." He shook his head. "You're not asking anything I haven't asked myself during every Games for more than forty years. The truth is, I honestly don't know. I don't think _any_ of us know until we're actually in that position."

"I knew."

Glenn raised an eyebrow. "You did?"

Presley nodded. "Maybe it's just a matter of time, really. There were three Games before yours. I grew up watching them. You can't help thinking about it, watching the Games for years before you're even eligible for the reaping. You can't help wondering what you'd do, picturing what it would be like to be in them. Now, mind you, I never _wanted_ to be in the Games. But I'd already made up my mind before I was even reaped that if I ever _was_ in the Games, I would do what had to be done in order to make it home."

"Just like that? You just made up your mind and … did it?"

Presley couldn't help a smile. "It sounds a lot easier, I guess, when you put it like that. It wasn't easy. I didn't want to. But I also didn't want to die." She shook her head.

"And I'll wager Skyton doesn't want to, either."

* * *

" _By these I see, so great a day as this is cheaply bought."_


	37. Cling Together

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** So I originally intended for my next update to be an X-Men one (I've been trying to alternate), but this chapter just sort of snuck up on me and ended up being easier to write. The next X-Men chapter is still coming, of course, but in the meantime, there's this. :)

The map on the website has been updated to include the underground portion of the castle. As with the other half of the map, more details will be added as the tunnels are explored, and there may be more entrances to be discovered. Also, anyone riding a griffin will just have an arrow pointing to the blue space above the map. I didn't feel it was necessary (or worth the effort) to make a separate map of the sky. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, just a friendly reminder to vote in the "favorite alliance" poll if you haven't already. A new one will be up along with the next chapter.

* * *

 **Day Two  
** **Cling Together**

* * *

 **Avery Bentham  
** **District Three Mentor**

At least it would be quick.

Avery held her breath as the griffin, with Skyton atop its back, circled lower in the sky. Closer and closer to the tower where Merrik stood, watching, his eyes wide. There was nowhere for him to go. He could try to scurry back down the stairs, of course, but Ronan, Shanali, and Kilian were still there. Even if they decided to spare him again, the Careers weren't far away. There was nowhere for him to run.

So maybe it was better if it ended quickly. If the Gamemakers had it in for him – and it certainly seemed like they did – then maybe it was better to get it over with now. Skyton, at least, would probably make it quick. It was just a matter of whether he would be able to hold himself together long enough to actually do it; he certainly didn't seem the sort to intentionally draw it out.

None of them did, really. Maybe Emmett, with the way he'd been eyeing the weapons in the dungeon, but he was gone now. No one else seemed like the kind of tribute who would make a death unnecessarily slow or cruel just for the fun of it. At least that was something. Maybe the audience would be disappointed, but…

Or maybe not. It wasn't always easy to predict how the audience would react to a tribute who tortured others unnecessarily. If the tributes were known rebels, of course, all bets were off. That was what had allowed the Gamemakers to deal so harshly with the tributes in her Games. They had been actively trying to rebel; the twelve of them had agreed not to kill each other. It was only once the Gamemakers had stepped in, sending mutts of the gods down on the Mount Olympus arena to separate and torture the tributes, that one of them had caved and agreed to kill the others.

 _She_ had caved. She had been the one to give in to their demands. So she had been allowed to live. She had killed the others. She had survived the arena, only to find that her family had already been executed for her actions.

The audience hadn't even batted an eyelid. But that was the exception. Her Games had been the exception that had paved the way for the Gamemakers to require additional tributes for the next nine Games. All those extra tributes – all those extra deaths – because the twelve of them had been foolish enough to think they could make a difference. More than a hundred deaths, all because of them. That blood was on their hands. On _her_ hands. She was the only one left.

"Avery." It was only once Vester spoke that she realized he had an arm around her shoulders, and he was holding her tightly. She was shaking in his arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Avery," he repeated.

She nodded a little. "Yeah."

"Still with me?"

"Yeah." He knew better than to ask if she was all right. None of them were – even the ones who pretended to be.

"I'm sure he'll make it quick," Vester said quietly. It was all the comfort he could really offer. Merrik was as good as dead; he knew that as well as any of them. And he knew better than to offer her false hope.

Avery nodded. "I know. It's just…"

"Tell me about it."

He'd probably meant it rhetorically, but she blurted it out anyway. "I'm just glad there's no one in the Games who _wouldn't_ make it quick for him."

Vester couldn't hide a wry smile. "You mean you're glad there's no one like me."

"That's not what I—"

"Isn't it?"

Avery said nothing. That wasn't _quite_ what she'd meant, but he wasn't wrong. His Games had been just as much an exception to that rule as hers. He'd tortured the former rebel soldiers in his Games mercilessly, leaving them staked out in the sun to die of exposure after he'd finished with them. The audience, still bitter after the recent rebellion, had loved him for it, and the Capitol still played clips from his Games from time to time as a reminder to the rebels of what could happen if they dared to rise up again.

Apparently, it hadn't been enough of a reminder.

Vester shook his head. "Don't sweat it, kid. _I'm_ glad there's no one like me in the Games right now. The audience doesn't really have a stomach for that sort of thing anymore – not unless they're convinced the tribute deserves it. What Merrik and Lena pulled during the private sessions was stupid and reckless, but not rebellious. The audience knows the difference."

Avery nodded a little. She hoped he was right. But she didn't have much faith in the audience's ability to tell the difference. Not after what had happened to so many people who had simply made a mistake, who had been a little too careless. Or who had cared too much. Avery's gaze strayed to Nicodemus as he wheeled himself over to the bar to fetch another round of drinks. She hoped Vester was right.

But she knew better than to count on it.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

He knew better than to hope the creature hadn't seen him.

Merrik ducked behind the nearest wall of the tower, but he knew better than to hope that would save him. The creature in the sky had already spotted him – and, more importantly, the figure riding on its back had seen him. The mutt hadn't quite gotten close enough for Merrik to see more than a shape on its back, but it was enough to know that someone was up there. Someone was hunting for prey.

And he was the only target available.

Merrik braced his back against the wall of the tower. There weren't a lot of options, and none of them were good. He could head back down the stairs and hope that no one was there. Hope that the Careers had moved on. That the other group of tributes had moved on. And that no one else had arrived. He could wait up here and hope that the creature would find someone else – _anyone_ else. But a quick glance at the other towers revealed that wasn't a likely option. He could wait at the top of the tower and try to _kill_ both the mutt and whoever was riding on its back before they could kill him. Also not a great plan. Or…

There was another option. It wasn't a _good_ option, but none of his options at the moment were good ones. He took another step to his left, then another. He could feel the wind behind him.

He could make it look like an accident.

No one would know he'd done it on purpose.

It was better than being mauled to death by the creature that was quickly descending. It would be quicker, at least. Wouldn't it? It wasn't that long of a fall to the ground below. A few seconds, maybe. A few seconds, and it would all be over.

It was better that way.

Closer. Closer. He could see the creature's claws now. It opened its beak and let out a terrible shriek. Startled, Merrik took a step backwards, tumbling over the edge of the wall, hurtling towards the ground.

One second. Then another. Merrik closed his eyes as he fell. Suddenly, he felt a jolt – but not the sort of jolt he'd been expecting. He'd been expecting to hit the ground, but, instead, something soft and almost … almost feathery … was beneath him, lifting him up, little by little. Something that felt like a hand closed around his wrist, holding him tightly. "It's okay," came a voice. "You're all right. It's okay. We're not going to hurt you."

We?

Merrik opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't. He was beside the other boy, on top of the mutt, and they were … flying. They were both flying. The beast hadn't killed him, and the boy hadn't let him die.

Why?

It didn't make any sense. The boy hadn't even had to kill him. He'd simply had to let him die. Let him keep falling. A few more seconds, and it would have been over. That would have been it. Merrik clung tightly to the creature's feathers as they landed on the tower – the same tower he'd stepped off of only moments before.

The other boy dismounted and tried to help Merrik off, but his legs gave way beneath him, and he crumpled to his knees. "Why?" Merrik managed to get out as the other boy helped him to his feet. "Why would you do that?"

The boy smiled a little. "Why not?"

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

"Why not?"

Skyton knew how silly the words sounded the moment they left his mouth. There were plenty of good reasons why not. The boy in front of him was his competition. He would have to die eventually if Skyton was going to make it out of the arena alive. He had no good reason to save the other boy. They didn't know each other. He barely remembered the boy's name.

But he _did_ remember it. His name was Merrik. And for now, that was enough. That was enough of a reason. He knew the boy's name. He was a tribute, yes, but he was also a person, just like him. They were probably more alike than different. Somewhere else, they might have been friends.

Somewhere else. But not here. There were no friends in the Games – only allies, and temporary ones, at that. And that hadn't gone so well for him so far. Clearly, things hadn't been going in the other boy's favor, either. Would working together really change that?

Did he have any other choice?

Not anymore. Not really. As soon as he'd told the mutt to dive – to save the boy from falling – the choice had been made. If he didn't offer an alliance now, the move would be nothing but stupid. But if he had a _reason_ to save the other boy – if they were going to make the perfect team – then what he had done was heroic.

That could make all the difference.

Skyton took a deep breath. The audience was watching; he would have to choose his words carefully. "I wanted another chance," he said at last.

The boy looked understandably confused. "Another chance at what?"

"To get it right. Working with someone, having allies. I blew it. I got it all wrong – and from the look of things, you did, too."

That hit home; he could see it in the other boy's eyes. And it would probably play well with the audience, too. They could understand that – the desire to work with someone, to not be on his own in the arena, especially this early in the Games. Hopefully, they would consider that a good enough reason.

But it wasn't the truth. The truth was, he hadn't had it in him to kill the other boy – or even to stand back and let him die. He couldn't do it. But he couldn't let the audience know that. As long as they thought he just wanted an ally, then…

Then _what_? Then maybe the mutt wouldn't decide he would make a tasty mid-Games snack? Maybe. Skyton held out his hand. "What do you say?"

The boy hesitated. "Alliances haven't been going that well for me."

Skyton chuckled. "Tell me about it. Two of my allies are dead. You?"

"Two. Lena and Dinah."

"Arabel and Connor." _And maybe Klaudia_. He still couldn't be sure what had happened to her, but maybe it didn't matter now. Now he had another chance. "And I'm Skyton."

"Merrik." The boy shook his hand. Skyton nodded as he clapped the younger boy on the back with his other hand.

"Let's get it right this time."

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17  
** **District One**

Nothing seemed to be going right anymore.

Justus shook his head as the four of them got a good look around the cornucopia. He, Genevieve, Mae, and Etora had made it back to the throne room without incident, expecting to find Elliot and Darian waiting for them. But the two boys were nowhere to be seen.

Mae had managed to calm down a little, but she was still glancing wildly from side to side, as if she expected their allies to materialize out of thin air. "Where do you think they went?" she asked no one in particular.

"Probably did the same thing Macauley did," Genevieve muttered. "Got tired of waiting around for us to get back and decided to go out and do something stupid."

"They're not dead, at least," Etora offered. "We'd have heard a cannon by now. The only faces were Macauley and the girl from Eight."

That was true, but it wasn't as comforting as it should have been. Elliot and Darian weren't dead, but they could be _anywhere_. With _anyone._

"Maybe someone tried to steal something, and they went after them," Mae suggested, but she didn't sound convinced.

Genevieve scoffed. "If so, they did a pretty poor job of it."

"Maybe it was the girl from Eight," Etora suggested.

Justus shook his head. "If they'd killed her, they could easily have made it back by now. That cannon was hours ago."

"Maybe she wasn't alone, and they're going after someone else," Etora continued.

Genevieve shook her head. "Or maybe they're not coming back."

Mae looked up. "What do you mean? Why would they leave?"

Genevieve turned to Justus. "I think it was pretty obvious during the interviews what Malchus was trying to get them to do. All that talk about why we didn't let the other two girls from Two join the pack. What if they showed up and made Darian and Elliot an offer? Would Darian turn down his district partners?" She turned to Etora. "Would _you_ , if you had been here?"

Etora glared. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it? Two Careers show up, ready for a fight if you don't agree to join them. Do you take your chances, or do you go along with them? Maybe give them a hint about which way your allies went, let them take their pick of the supplies." She nodded towards the piles. "You really don't think we'll find anything missing?" She turned to Justus, waiting.

Waiting for him to agree.

After a moment, Justus nodded. "The piles _do_ look a little smaller." They did, but whether they actually _were_ , or whether it was his imagination, he couldn't be sure. Everything seemed to be moving too quickly. Just a few hours ago, their whole alliance had been intact. Arguing about whether to keep moving or camp out for the night. Now…

Now it was all falling apart. That was what had to happen eventually, of course, but this was _much_ too soon. Far sooner than he'd expected. He hadn't planned for this.

No one could have planned for this.

"It's too soon to jump to conclusions, though," Justus continued smoothly. "Let's have something to eat and wait a little while. If they come back, all the better. If not … well, then we'll know something else is going on, and we can figure out what to do from there." He turned to Genevieve, waiting. _I backed you up. You owe me._

"Sounds like a plan," Genevieve agreed without hesitation. Mae nodded along and settled down to eat with the rest of them. Etora hesitated. Only for a moment, but it was there. She wasn't sure – not _completely_ sure – that Genevieve was wrong about her district partners. And if it _was_ just the four of them now – just her and three tributes from District One – she had to be wondering whether staying with them was her best option.

He would just have to make sure that it was.

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

Maybe this hadn't been their best option, after all.

Elliot caught his breath as he and Darian reached the top of the stairs. A door at the top led them out into the open air. Elliot glanced around, expecting to see another tribute. That had been the idea, of course. This was where _he_ would have gone to get away from the bird mutts.

But apparently, whoever had been screaming earlier hadn't had the same idea at all. It didn't take long for the two of them to realize that there was no one on top of the tower. It wasn't all that large, and it was _very_ empty. So were three of the other towers that circled the castle. But the fourth…

Elliot pointed as soon as he saw the creature – some sort of winged mutt. Could that be what the other tributes had been running from? Maybe, but it seemed too big. Too big to have been in any of the cages they'd found. Maybe it was what had let the other birds _out_ of the cages. In any case, it didn't seem to have seen themyet.

Which meant they should probably head back down the stairs before it did. They were armed, of course, but against a mutt like that, as well as the two tributes who seemed to be standing beside the mutt … not a good option. If the mutt was working with the tributes, that was a pretty clear sign that they should stay clear. Mutts usually didn't cooperate with tributes unless the tribute was pretty popular with the audience.

That was a lesson District Five's tributes had learned pretty early on. During the Ninth Games, Harakuise had used the eagle mutts in the arena to his advantage. Camden had done the same. Oliver had taken the idea a step farther than most tributes, befriending a pack of giant prairie dog mutts and even bringing one home with him after his Games. But none of that would have happened unless the Gamemakers had _wanted_ it to happen. It made a good show.

And it was a show he didn't want to be on the wrong end of.

"Let's get out of here," he whispered to Darian, who was all too happy to agree. He hadn't wanted to leave the cornucopia in the first place, and maybe he'd had the right idea. For all their effort, they hadn't managed to find the tributes they'd been looking for. Maybe they would have been better off just waiting for the others.

If that was what Darian was thinking, however, he didn't say so. Elliot smiled as they started to make their way down the stairs. At least Darian was considerate enough not to rub it in. That, or he knew that wouldn't sit well with the audience. The audience _liked_ it when tributes kept moving, kept looking for opportunities, kept up the pace of the Games. To admit that they should have stayed put would be a step in the wrong direction.

So they descended the stairs in silence, until Darian finally spoke up. "I'm sorry about Macauley."

Elliot didn't answer right away. It still didn't quite seem real. They'd seen Macauley's face on the wall, of course, but how could she just be … gone? Maybe once they got back to the others, it would start to sink in. They were sure to be able to tell him what had happened. How she'd died. She'd been with them, after all.

"Thanks," Elliot said at last. What else was he supposed to say? He'd known all along that Macauley would have to die eventually. Hell, _Darian_ would have to die eventually in order for him to make it home. But he hadn't expected it to happen quite this soon.

It didn't quite seem fair.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

It wasn't fair.

Macauley gave Emmett's body another kick for good measure. She was trapped in here, and it was his fault. And the worst part was, she couldn't even make him pay for it. He was already dead. As far as the other Careers were concerned, though, _she_ was the one who was dead. She was the one whose face had appeared on the wall after Emmett's cannon had sounded. She'd immediately started pounding on the door, screaming for the others to open it, to let her out. Insisting that she wasn't dead.

But they hadn't listened. Or maybe they hadn't heard her. But _she'd_ been able to hear Emmett perfectly fine when he'd been tapping on the door. Still, if they'd heard her, why hadn't they opened the door? Even if they thought she was dead, wouldn't they have been curious enough to open the door, eager to find any other tribute who might be able to imitate her voice that well?

So that left the possibility that they hadn't been able to hear her at all. Maybe that was the Gamemakers' doing. Maybe the doors only muffled sounds when they wanted them to. But why would they want to strand her here to die when she was doing so well?

Okay. _Okay, settle down_. She wasn't going to die yet – or anytime soon, for that matter. She still had a bit of food and a bottle of water in her pockets; they'd taken plenty from the cornucopia when they'd left, and each of them had stashed a supply in their pockets. Enough to last a little while. It would be better if she had her bag, but she hadn't thought to bring it when she'd gone to investigate the tapping noise. She'd assumed she'd be back for it soon enough.

But at least she wouldn't starve. Not immediately, anyway. Besides, there was no reason for the Gamemakers to abandon her to that fate. There had to be another way out. There was a window, of course. Probably large enough for her to climb out, if she could reach it. But it was pretty high along the wall, which meant a long drop on the other side, even if they _were_ at ground level, which didn't seem likely. And trying to cling to the side of the castle until she could reach a window to _another_ room didn't seem like the best option. Maybe if she couldn't think of anything _else_ …

She could try to pry the door open. Or break it down. But it was made of some sort of metal; she wasn't going to be able to just smash through it like she might be able to do with a wooden door. And there didn't seem to be anything available that might be able to blow it up. The instruments on the table were mostly knives, whips, chains, and the like. Nothing explosive.

Nothing useful.

Maybe the sponsors would send her something, if she got desperate enough. But she didn't like the idea of asking for their help. Not when there might be a way out on her own. She might need their help later, for something more important. She could figure this out.

She _had_ to figure this out.

If the sponsors were going to send something, after all, the time would have been hours ago, when her face had appeared on the wall. All they would have needed to do was send a message to the others to open the door. Simple. But they hadn't. Maybe that meant Sabine had a plan. A plan that didn't involve reuniting with the other Careers. Maybe her mentor thought she was better off on her own.

Hell, maybe she was right. She'd killed Emmett on her own, after all, with only a few scrapes and cuts to show for it. And what had the others done? They'd been sleeping – all of them. Well, all of them except Elliot and Darian, who were probably still at the cornucopia. She hadn't seen _their_ faces on the wall, after all.

Except … those faces couldn't be trusted. Her face had shown up instead of Emmett's. Why? What had she done? Why would the Gamemakers want the other tributes to think she was dead? She was the _opposite_ of dead. She had killed—

 _Oh._

She had killed. Was that what they were doing? Showing the faces of those who had killed instead of those who had died? Maybe. But that wasn't what they had done the first time. Why would they change it in the middle of the Games? And did that mean the girl from Eight had killed, as well? Maybe. But there was no way of knowing _who_ she had killed.

Macauley gave Emmett's body another frustrated kick. Even if that _was_ what the Gamemakers were up to, it didn't do her much good. What was she supposed to do with that information? It wasn't as if it was going to help her get out of this room.

Was it?

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

Was it time to go back down?

Ronan glanced around at the others as they ate a little more of the food they'd grabbed. They were getting restless, and he couldn't really blame them for that. They'd spent the night in the stairwell, and probably a good bit of the morning, too. Not that they had a good way to tell day from night without going back up the stairs. And that didn't seem like a good idea – not unless they wanted to run into the boy from Three again. There wasn't another way down from the tower – not one they'd found, at least – and his face hadn't appeared with the anthem. So he was still up there.

The Careers, on the other hand … What were the chances they were still at the bottom of the stairs? The girl from Five was dead, which meant the others had probably decided to move along. There was no telling how long the Careers had probably been gone. Chances were, if they left now, all they would find was an empty room.

"You think we should head down there?" Shanali asked, breaking the silence. Clearly, she was ready to get moving again. And maybe that was for the best. If they stayed here long enough, it would only be a matter of time before the Gamemakers decided to force them out.

Ronan nodded, still a bit reluctant. It was the right move, but that didn't make it any easier. Even if the Careers were gone, there was no telling who else might be in the room below them. It was easier to stay here in the stairwell. Easier to keep telling themselves that they could just wait a _little_ longer, give themselves a _little_ more time.

Ronan took a deep breath. Maybe it was easier now, but it would hurt them in the long run if they stayed put for too long. "Now's probably as good a time as any," he agreed, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Shanali turned to Kilian, who nodded his agreement and picked up his axe from the stairs. Shanali packed up the supplies and shouldered her bag, gripping her dagger tightly as the three of them started to make their way down the stairs. Ronan took the lead, holding his mace out in front of them, warning anyone who might see them coming that they were armed.

Finally, they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Ronan took a step into the room. Then another. Sure enough, the Careers were gone, and it didn't seem like anyone else had taken their place. "Okay," he whispered. "All clear."

Shanali didn't bother holding back a chuckle. "If it's all clear, then why are you whispering?"

Ronan opened his mouth, but nothing came to mind. Even if there was someone in the next room, the chances of someone attacking three armed, older, stronger tributes seemed pretty slim. Still, there was something a bit unnerving about hearing a voice out loud in such a large, empty room.

"Doesn't look like there's anything here," Kilian observed, changing the subject. "Or any _one_."

"That's a good thing, right?" Ronan pointed out. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. That wasn't the sort of thing the audience wanted to hear. But what was he supposed to say? That he'd been hoping to find someone here?

Suddenly, he heard a tapping sound, coming from the direction of one of the doors leading out of the room. "That way!" Kilian hissed, immediately gesturing to the opposite direction. Ronan didn't need to think twice; the three of them headed for the door. The room was full of barrels, and Ronan immediately ducked behind one. The others followed his lead as he glanced around the room. There didn't seem to be anyone here, either. Just a lot of barrels.

Now he wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

The dripping was definitely a good sound.

Barlen smiled, satisfied, as another drop of candle wax fell to the floor, leaving him a perfect trail. _Drip._ He could do this. He _was_ doing this. His friends—

He glanced down at the note on his arm. Vashti and Mariska. Those were their names. Vashti and Mariska were counting on him. They trusted him to … to …

Explore. That was it. He was exploring the tunnels. And he had to remember. He had to remember to leave himself a trail, or he wouldn't be able to find his way back to them. Back to Mariska and Vashti. Barlen grinned. He hadn't even looked at his arm that time. He'd remembered their names.

That was something.

 _Drip._ The candle was growing shorter by the moment. But that was all right. There were plenty of candles for light along the walls of the hallway. Once his candle ran out, he could turn around and follow his trail back to report what he'd found. Except he hadn't _found_ anything. Or, at least, he was pretty certain he hadn't.

Nothing except the shape ahead of him in the distance.

 _Wait._

Barlen pressed his back against the nearest wall, holding his breath. There was someone up ahead. Someone else was in the tunnels. He gripped the candle, a little of the wax spilling over onto his hand. _Ouch_. He barely held back a hiss of pain. He couldn't let the other person – the other _tribute_ – know that he was here.

He remembered that much. Well, it was written on his arm, but that was pretty much the same thing, wasn't it? He was in the Hunger Games. That meant anyone else he ran into was a tribute. They were competition. Except…

Except Vashti and Mariska. They were his friends. And Leo. Leo had been his friend. But Leo was dead; he remembered that. Mariska and Vashti, though – they were still alive.

Weren't they?

Yes. Yes, they had to be. That was why he was down here, exploring. They had sent him. They were expecting him to come back with information. Information he didn't have yet. He didn't know _who_ was down here.

And he would have to get closer if he wanted to find out.

Okay. Just a little closer. He could get just a _little_ closer. Slowly, _so_ slowly, Barlen inched his way closer, keeping his back to the wall, trying not to make a sound. But everything sounded so _loud_ if he was trying to stay quiet. His breathing. His heartbeat. Everything seemed to echo off the walls of the tunnels.

He was closer now – close enough to tell that the tribute had blonde hair. _Very_ pale blonde hair. He didn't remember which ones that might be, though. He would have to get closer.

Barlen gripped his candle as he slid closer. It was almost like a game. How close could he get without being noticed? Just like at home, when he would sometimes sneak up on his parents and surprise them. Except he _didn't_ want to surprise this tribute. He just wanted to get close enough to tell who they were.

Just a _little_ closer.

* * *

 **Klaudia Almasy, 18  
** **District Eight**

Just a _little_ closer.

Klaudia held her breath as the steps behind her grew louder. Closer. It _had_ to be someone who was trying to sneak up on her. There was no way they hadn't noticed that she was here, sitting on the floor of the tunnel, resting for a little while. She turned her knife over in her hands as the steps came closer. She just had to let them get a little closer.

Klaudia gripped the knife. There was no way anyone would be trying to get this close unless they meant to kill her. Skyton was the only one in the arena who might not want to kill her, and he would have said something by now. Or he would have seen that it was her and turned and run the other way.

No, whoever it was, it was either them or her. Only one of them was going to walk away from this.

And it was going to be her.

Klaudia took a deep breath, turned, and lunged at the figure behind her, tackling them to the ground. There was a yelp as she landed on top of them, plunging the knife down. Whoever it was, they were smaller than she'd expected. And they were holding a candle.

Then she saw his face.

It was one of the younger boys from Nine. Klaudia drew the knife out of his shoulder. He was staring up at her, wide-eyed. She _recognized_ him. And, for a moment, he almost seemed to recognize her.

Then the candlestick struck her in the head.

Klaudia toppled over, dazed. Then the boy was on top of her. The candlestick came down again. And again. The knife – the knife she had meant to kill him with – fell from her grasp as the candlestick struck her wrist, pressing it against the floor. The boy scooped up the knife, and it plunged down towards her neck. "You're not here," the boy gasped as the knife found her throat. "You can't be here. It's a trick. It has to be. You're dead."

Klaudia almost laughed. _Might_ have laughed, if her throat hadn't been filling with blood. The faces on the wall – they had fooled him into thinking that she was already dead. And there was no harm in killing a ghost, right?

Maybe she _was_ a ghost. Maybe she had been dead all along – ever since her name had been called at the reaping. All of this … maybe she had just been delaying the inevitable. Maybe this was better. Maybe it would even be peaceful.

Maybe…

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

 _Boom._

Charu nearly jumped as the cannon echoed off the walls of the room. Everything seemed so much louder than … well, louder than she had imagined it would. Not that she'd really had any idea what to expect, but this … this certainly wasn't what she would have pictured. None of it. Eleven tributes were dead. There were twenty-four of them left. And none of those cannons had been members of her alliance.

They were still alive. And not only that, but they were doing _well_. They had food, water, and even weapons. Sure, most of that had happened in the past few hours or so, but that just made it even more impressive, really. Their luck had turned around just like _that_.

It was more than luck, of course. Consus had been willing to take a risk, and that risk had paid off. It was that simple. They were playing the Game well.

Or, at least, Consus was.

Charu shook the thought from her head. They were a team – for now, at least. What Consus had done would help all of them. Why did it matter _who_ had been the one to get the supplies? They had them now. Next time, maybe she would be the one to step up and take a risk. Maybe—

Just then, she heard something. From the look on her face, Aleyn heard it, too. Immediately, she motioned to the others to be quiet. Not that they'd been particularly loud in the first place. But the cannon had prompted a little whispering, a little speculation about who it may have belonged to.

Now they all fell silent, listening to the tapping coming from … somewhere. The next room, maybe. "Think we should go see what it is?" Consus asked.

It was obvious what _he_ thought they should do. But did they really want to push their luck? They already had pretty much everything they could ask for. They had plenty of supplies – enough to last for at least days. Maybe even a week, if they were careful. Why should they go looking for trouble?

And it was almost certainly trouble. Tapping could mean two things – either another tribute, or a mutt. Neither of those things sounded like a sound they wanted to be moving _towards_.

Unless…

She caught Consus' eye, and he nodded. Stealing from the cornucopia had been risky, but it hadn't gotten them what the audience really wanted to see: a kill. The audience wanted blood. Apparently, it didn't matter to them that there had just been a cannon. They were probably the largest alliance in the arena, apart from the Careers. Maybe the Gamemakers figured it was time for them to start acting like it.

Charu nodded, backing Consus' play. "No harm in going to see what it is, I suppose. If it seems too dangerous, we can always turn around and come back."

Right. That was exactly what Consus had said before heading to the cornucopia to scout it out. Sure, that had turned out well. But if there _had_ been someone there, would the Gamemakers have let him just turn around and come back?

Aleyn opened her mouth as if to object, but before she could, Wes cast his vote. "Sounds like a good idea. We've been in one place for quite a while, anyway. I wouldn't mind a change of scenery."

Aleyn kept her mouth shut. If she disagreed now, she would be outvoted, and she would seem like a coward. Instead, she nodded along silently. But Charu could already tell what she really thought.

She was already sure it was a mistake.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15  
** **District Four**

She was already sure this was a mistake.

Aleyn gripped her cleaver as the four of them headed into the next room. There were tall, thick wooden posts reaching towards the ceiling. It took her a moment to realize that they were beds. But the tapping wasn't coming from any of them.

It was coming from a door.

"I'll have a look," Consus offered, immediately stepping towards the door.

Before he could get too close, however, Charu grabbed him by the shoulder. "Wait a moment. If there's someone on the other side, they're probably waiting right there to ambush us. We can't just go rushing in there."

Consus raised an eyebrow. "So what's your plan?"

She didn't have a plan. Neither of them did. They were just making this up as they went along. Consus had gotten lucky with the supplies, but that was all it was. Luck. He was just counting on getting that lucky again.

But they couldn't depend on that. No one could. Eventually, every tribute's luck ran out – all except one. They had to assume that there was someone behind that door. Someone who would try to kill them as soon as they opened it. And if _they_ could hear the tapping, chances were the tribute on the other side could hear them, and would know what they were planning.

Aleyn shook her head. Their best chance was to just leave, but she already knew the others wouldn't listen. Now that they had plenty of supplies, they were eager to prove themselves. Never mind that none of them had any idea what to _do_ with the weapons they had.

"What if we charge in swinging?" Wes whispered, maybe realizing what Aleyn had – that whoever was on the other side of the door could probably hear them if they were too loud. "Throw open the door quickly, and then we all rush through at once. Maybe that will surprise them."

Aleyn held her tongue. That was probably what the other tribute was expecting them to do. But it was a better idea than sending only one person through, and they would probably have the other tribute outnumbered.

Before she could say anything, Charu and Consus were nodding in agreement, their weapons raised. As silently as they could, they crept closer to the door. Closer. Closer. Charu laid her hand on the handle, gripping her dagger in the other hand. Consus held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

The door swung open. The four of them rushed through – Charu and Consus, then Wes, then Aleyn. There was a flurry of movement. Aleyn gave a yelp as something swiped across her leg. Someone was running – running out the door, and pulling it shut behind them.

"Aleyn!" Charu called, rushing to her side as she staggered forward. Aleyn looked down at her leg. It was bleeding, but it didn't seem too bad. Whoever had run through the door hadn't wanted to take the time to kill her – just distract her long enough to make her escape. But why? They could just open the door again and—

"Shit!" Wes realized at the same time she did. "There's no handle!" As if to prove his point, he immediately tried to wedge his fingers between the door and the wall to pry it open, without any success. They were trapped.

Aleyn clenched her fists as Charu opened her pack and took out a few strips of bandages. That was why the other tribute had been in such a hurry to get out of there. Why she hadn't bothered hanging around for a fight. Aleyn shook her head.

What were they supposed to do now?

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18  
** **District Two**

What were they supposed to do now?

Mae glanced over at Margo as the two of them made their way back into the room with the birds. Or, at least, the room where the birds _had_ been. There was no sign of them now, which was probably good news. Unfortunately, there was no sign of any of the other tributes, either. Apparently, the birds' squawking hadn't been enough to make any of the other tributes curious.

Maybe that made sense. How many tributes would choose to run _towards_ the sound of mutts and screaming? Probably not many. Certainly not any of the non-Careers. There probably wasn't anyone nearby at all. The only reason they'd come back into _this_ room was because there didn't seem to be another way out of the room with the weapons.

Margo opened her mouth as if to suggest that maybe they should head to the next room. Or maybe back towards the cornucopia, back through the treasure room, to see if there were any tributes in that direction. But before she could say anything, they heard a sound. The sound of voices, coming from … somewhere nearby. But where?

Silently, Margo pointed to the stairs on the other side of the room. Mae nodded. She was right; there were tributes on the stairs. From the sound of it, the were still pretty far away, but the voices seemed to be getting a little closer. Or maybe the stairwell was making the voices echo. Either way, this was their chance. The chance they'd been waiting for.

Or, at least, the chance the _Gamemakers_ had been waiting to give them. It was all part of their plan; it had to be. If there were tributes on the stairs, they couldn't have gotten there while she and Margo had been staying in the bird room. That left two options. Either they had been on the stairs the whole time, or they had passed through the room _after_ the birds had chased her and Margo into the next one. It was too convenient to be a coincidence. Whoever was on the stairs, the Gamemakers were trying to drive them together.

And maybe it was about time. She and Margo had been lucky so far. Aside from the little encounter with the birds, they'd made it through the last few days unharmed. Days? Maybe. She had no idea, really, how long it had been. There had been two sets of faces on the wall, but they'd seemed a bit close together to actually be marking days in the arena. There was something going on there; she just wasn't sure what.

Not that it was important at the moment. The voices were coming closer. Closer. Mae gripped a dagger in one hand and a small sickle in the other. Positioned on the other side of the doorway that led to the stairs, Margo gripped a spear. It wouldn't take the tributes long to make their way down the stairs. Already the voices were getting louder. She could _almost_ make out what they were saying. And one of the voices sounded almost familiar.

Almost like…

 _Shit._ Mae looked up at Margo, who didn't seem to have put it together. Maybe she was wrong. She certainly hoped she was wrong. Because if it was Darian on the stairs, then the other person with him was probably one of the other Careers. And if there was _more_ than one of them…

If the Careers were on the stairs, their best option was to run. Yes, they were armed. Yes, they would have the element of surprise. But if there were more than two of the others, they would be outnumbered. "Darian," Mae whispered, and Margo raised an eyebrow. Doing the math. She glanced at the door, then at the cages, and shook her head. This was what the Gamemakers wanted. It was probably what the audience wanted. Whatever their chances were, this was a risk they had to take.

They didn't have any other choice.

* * *

 **Balthasar Doyle  
** **District Two Mentor**

There wasn't any other choice.

Balthasar leaned back in his chair, watching as Darian and Elliot made their way down the stairs. _Idiots_. The two of them were chatting away, as if they weren't in the middle of a fight for their lives. It was mostly Elliot doing the chatting, but Darian hadn't had the sense to tell him to be quiet. Maybe they'd decided to act like Careers, after all – assuming that none of the other tributes would intentionally go after them, that they were virtually untouchable.

Meanwhile, Margo and Annemae seemed to be on the right track. With a little nudge from the Gamemakers, of course, but they'd finally taken the hint. If they wanted the audience to treat them like Careers, they had to _act_ like Careers. And taking on two of the other Career tributes would certainly prove that they had what it took.

It was Harriet who finally broke the uneasy silence. "Not to tell you how to do your job, Balthasar, but if you're going to warn him … now would be the time."

Balthasar shook his head. He'd thought about it, of course. All it would take was a warning that they were about to walk into an ambush. Sure, they couldn't exactly head back up the stairs – not with a griffin waiting on one of the other towers – but just _knowing_ that the other two were there would help them. They could work out a strategy. At least they wouldn't be caught off-guard.

But where would be the fun in that?

It wasn't fun for _him,_ of course. Not really. But the audience enjoyed the suspense. They would want to see how Darian and Elliot would react, not to mention whether Margo and Annemae would actually be able to go through with attacking one of their district partners. Aside from the element of surprise, it was about as fair a fight as they could ask for. Two pairs of well-armed Careers, about to go head to head.

Balthasar took another drink. "I don't think I need to. You sure you and Mortimer don't want to tell yours to run and hide?"

That got a chuckle out of Harriet, but Mortimer just scoffed. "We'll see if you're so cocky once the fighting begins."

"Right back at you," Balthasar grinned. "Personally, I think my kid's still got a few tricks up his sleeve." He drained his glass.

"May the best Careers win."

* * *

" _Doubtful it stood; as two spent swimmers, that do cling together and choke their art."_


	38. Bad Begun

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Results of the "favorite alliance" poll are up on the website. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who you _think_ will make it to the final eight. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you _want_ to see in the final eight. (That'll be the next poll.) Maybe it's a bit early to even be thinking about the final eight, but since we're down to the regular 24 tributes (as of last chapter), I figured I'd throw it out there. And I want to have time for both that and the "want to see in the final eight" poll before we get down too close to the actual number.

Since it's a "final eight" poll, this math teacher would be delighted if we could all manage to vote for eight tributes this time around. :)

As usual, this poll isn't likely to affect anything, as I've already got a pretty solid idea of who my final eight are. Holy cow, did I really just type that? *double-checks notes* Yep, I've got a pretty solid idea of my final eight, and a tentative working plan for the rest of the Games. It's ... been a while since I've felt this organized about a plot. I'm pretty proud of that. (Now watch me shuffle everything around once I start writing the next chapter.)

Also as usual, anyone who dies in this chapter won't be included in the poll, so **read the chapter first.**

* * *

 **Day Two  
** **Bad Begun**

* * *

 **Duke Ballard  
** **District Six Mentor**

"He's not doing so bad after all."

Duke clapped Basil on the back as the younger mentor dealt out another hand of cards to the three of them – himself, Duke, and Kyra. Duke nodded towards a screen in the corner, which showed Barlen making his way back towards Vashti and Mariska. Or, at least, he was headed in their general direction, distracted every now and then by the blood on his candlestick or on the knife he'd taken from Klaudia. He'd used the knife to cut off a few strips from his shirt and bandage his shoulder, which would suffice until he made it back to his allies.

 _If_ he made it back to his allies.

Basil rolled his eyes. "Now don't you start, too. If Harakuise hadn't suggested coaxing him into an alliance with the other two, he'd be dead."

"Probably," Duke agreed. "But killing Klaudia … he did that all on his own."

Basil shrugged. "He got lucky. She hesitated."

"And he didn't," Kyra pointed out. "He knew someone was trying to kill him, and he fought back."

"Because he thought she was a ghost," Basil pointed out, discarding a four of hearts. "You really think he would have bashed her head in with a candlestick if he'd realized that she was a real, live tribute?"

Kyra shrugged. "Maybe. No way to know, really. The Games can make people do some pretty crazy things. Like collapse an entire anthill," she added with a glance at Basil.

"Or cut off their own leg," Basil chuckled, flashing a smile at Duke.

"Exactly," Duke agreed, giving his peg leg a pat. It had been a split-second decision during the finale. He and one of his former allies, the boy from One, had both been trapped by chains that had come to life in their prison arena, wrapping around their legs as the mutts closed in. Unable to reach his opponent while trapped, he'd used his own weapon to cut through his right leg at the knee, then finished off his opponent before passing out from blood loss.

The Capitol had loved it, just as they'd loved the fact that he'd refused a prosthetic, fashioning a peg leg for himself, instead. As far as they were concerned, it gave him style. It made him unique. That was all that mattered to them, in the end. They wanted tributes who were interesting, who gave them a show. And he had done that.

So had Basil and Kyra, each in their own way. Basil hadn't taken long to find his way to the center of the anthill, where he'd killed a girl who happened to wander in at the wrong time. Her supplies had given him what he'd needed – a way to collapse the anthill. He'd taken days to arrange everything just right, but when he'd made his move, the cave-in had buried the rest of the tributes alive. He'd crushed and suffocated them without ever raising a blade, making his Games one of the quickest on record.

Kyra's, on the other hand, was the longest to date. She hadn't had the audience's attention at first, but once she turned on an ally – an ally she had abandoned during the bloodbath – they began to take note. One by one, she'd outlasted the others, killing six tributes before it was all over. Twenty-six days – double the length of his own Games. She was the youngest Victor in more than four decades, all because she'd been able to give them a show and do what had to be done.

Duke's gaze strayed to a screen that showed Charu and her alliance, still trapped in the dungeon room. They'd spent almost an hour scouring the room for anything they might be able to use to pry the door open or climb up to the window. They didn't get it yet. They hadn't figured it out.

"I'm sure they'll find something soon," Kyra offered hopefully, picking up two cards when she thought he wasn't looking.

Duke shook his head, swiping one of the cards and placing it back on the bottom of the pile. "Don't count on it."

Basil raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? You think the Gamemakers are just going to leave them in there?"

"Why not?"

"They let Macauley out," Kyra shrugged.

Duke nodded. She'd tricked the others into opening the door, yes, but it was the Gamemakers who had made sure that they could hear her tapping. "There's no one else nearby," Duke pointed out. "But even if there were, they wouldn't let them try the same trick again. They'd just end up with a revolving door of tributes trapped and tricking their way out. They've got something much more interesting now."

Basil drew another card. "What do you mean?"

"Who do you think they'd rather have trapped in there?" Duke reasoned. "Macauley, or the four of them? Who would _you_ rather watch trying to escape?"

"Macauley was more desperate," Kyra offered. "The four of them have enough food to last them quite a while."

"No harm in laying low for a while," Basil agreed. "They're probably safer in there than anywhere else in the arena."

Duke nodded. "And that's what one or two of them will probably say – at least for a while. Until they get restless. Until they start to worry that the Gamemakers are going to send some mutts after them. Until they realize that, eventually, they're going to have to do something."

"They _are_ doing something," Kyra pointed out. "They're looking for a way out."

"Not good enough," Duke reasoned. "Not for long. You just wait; they'll be at each other's throats in no time." He shook his head.

"And _that's_ what the audience wants to see."

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18  
** **District Two**

This was exactly what the audience wanted to see.

Margo gripped her spear tightly as the footsteps came closer. Closer. The voices had died down a little, as if the two of them were starting to suspect that maybe they shouldn't be quite so loud. Or maybe they had simply run out of things to talk about. It _did_ seem like there were only two of them. Darian and one of the other boys.

That narrowed the options a bit. There was Justus from District One, Elliot from District Five, and … that was it, wasn't it? Unless they'd picked up an extra ally somewhere. The rest of the Careers were girls, and one of them was already dead. If she and Mae could take out two of them now…

But that would mean killing Darian. One of their district partners. They'd always known that was a possibility, of course. There were five of them from District Two; it was only a matter of time before some of them ran into each other. Still, she couldn't help wondering what their mentors thought of all this. But they hadn't stepped in to stop them.

And why should they? This was exactly the sort of fight the audience would love. Two against two. Careers versus Careers. Except they _weren't_ Careers – not really. And neither were the others. They were all pretending. It was just a matter of who could pretend better now that their lives were actually on the line.

Closer. Closer. She could see a few shadows now, making their way down the stairs. She nodded at Mae, who turned her own weapon over in her hands, waiting. Waiting for the right moment.

A figure passed through the doorway, and Margo charged. The figure gave a shout, dodging her blow. He had a dagger; she could see that now. It _was_ the boy from Five. Margo swung again, and Mae charged at the second figure. Darian. So it _was_ just the two of them. It was going to be about as fair a fight as they could ask for.

Except now the element of surprise was gone. The boy from five swung his own weapon, and Margo took a step back, ducking beneath his blow. He was startled. Still a bit confused. She could use that. She circled back towards Mae and Darian, who were trading blows. Neither of them seemed to be getting the better of the fight. Maybe she could help them, once—

Just as she was making her way towards the others, however, the boy dove for her legs. She hadn't been expecting that. She tried to kick his weapon away, but the blade sliced across her calf. _Shit._ She gave him a kick with her other leg, and the two of them tumbled to the floor. The boy was on top of her, but she still had her spear. It was an awkward position to use it from, though, and she only succeeded in swinging it towards his head. The boy grabbed hold of the shaft, dropping his own weapon, trying to gain control. Margo held on as tightly as she could.

She didn't have any other choice.

* * *

 **Elliot Stone, 18  
** **District Five**

He didn't have any other choice.

Elliot yanked back on the spear, trying to wrench it from the girl's grasp as Darian and the other girl circled around behind him. As soon as he finished dealing with this one, then he could go help Darian. Elliot clenched his teeth. He should have been expecting an attack. The Gamemakers had wanted them on the stairs for a reason. They'd wanted the two of them to follow the birds to exactly that spot. It had all been arranged. It had all been leading to this.

The girl gave a yank on the spear, nearly pulling it from his grasp. Elliot leaned forward, trying to get some leverage. He'd dropped his dagger nearby. He could pick it up, but that would mean letting go of the spear. And if he did that…

No. He could do this. He pulled back quickly, then leaned sharply forward, pressing the spear towards the girl's throat. He just needed another moment or two. Then—

Suddenly, he felt something sharp, stabbing into his back. A blade was sticking out of his chest. _Through_ his chest. What…?

He turned, expecting to see the other girl. Instead, Darian stood behind him, his dagger no longer in his hand. The other girl – his other district partner – stood beside him, weapon raised, just as baffled as Elliot was. It didn't make any sense. Why would Darian…?

He didn't have time to figure it out. Darian reached for his dagger, yanking it out of Elliot's back. Elliot crumpled to the floor as blood began to pour from the wound. He could feel the other girl scrambling out from under him, covered in blood. _His_ blood.

Quietly, as if in a dream, he heard something clatter to the floor. He could hear voices, but they all seemed muffled. He couldn't make out the words. Maybe he didn't want to. He didn't want to know what they were saying.

He just wanted the pain to stop.

Elliot closed his eyes. It would be over soon. It wouldn't take long. Not with this much blood. It was only a matter of time before…

 _Boom_.

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14  
** **District Two**

 _Boom_.

Darian held his breath as Elliot's cannon sounded. His would soon follow, if his gamble didn't pay off. He had been losing the fight. Mae had almost had him pinned. Even if Elliot had been able to help him, he might not have made it in time. So he'd played the only card he had. He already hated it. But he hadn't had any other choice.

Had he?

Mae had been trying to drive him back towards the others so she could help Margo once she finished him off. It had only taken him a split second to turn and stab Elliot in the back, instead. That had been enough to surprise Mae. Enough for her not to kill him.

Not yet, at least. He'd thrown down his dagger immediately, which would look good to the audience. To them, it would look like he'd been planning this all along. Like he'd been working with Margo and Mae to betray the Career pack. He hadn't been doing anything of the sort, of course, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that it _looked_ that way to the audience.

None of that would work, of course, unless the other two went along with it. Mae helped Margo to her feet, never taking her eyes off Darian. He didn't make a move for his dagger. He didn't make a move to run. It was up to them now. Were they going to kill their unarmed district partner in cold blood, or were they going to risk going along with his plan?

His plan. He didn't even _have_ a plan. Only a few moments ago, his plan had been to head back to the cornucopia with Elliot and see if the others were back yet. Darian's gaze strayed to Elliot's body, and his stomach churned. It wasn't fair. They had been chatting away on the stairs only a few minutes ago, as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing could _go_ wrong. Such a stupid mistake. Such an obvious mistake. So obvious…

Would the audience buy that?

Darian put on his best smile. "You heard us coming, right?"

For a moment, he got nothing. Then Margo put it together. "You wanted us to hear you?"

"Figured it was probably you," Darian agreed in what he hoped sounded like a casual tone. "Heard you earlier running from those birds." It was a guess, but not a bad one, considering he'd seen a few bandages on their arms. He nodded towards Elliot's body. "He never suspected a thing."

That much was true. Elliot would never have expected this. But that was why he was dead, and Darian was alive. Darian held out his hand. "I'd say we make a pretty good team."

Margo hesitated. But not for long. Her leg was hurt. She didn't want another fight. And she certainly didn't want to kill someone who was offering to help them. She glanced at Mae, who nodded. Margo shook his hand as the anthem began to play.

"Welcome to our pack."

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

At least the pack was getting smaller.

Merrik nodded a little as the face of one of the boys from Five appeared in the sky above. It was getting dark – dark enough to see that it was the oldest one of the three boys, the one who had joined the Career pack. That made the second Career gone, and both of them had been from District Five. Of course, thanks to the twist, Five still had two tributes left, but one of them was twelve and the other was the boy with the bleeding disorder. Chances were, neither of them would pose much of a threat.

Of course, that was what people probably thought about him, and _he_ was still alive. But he wasn't alive because he'd killed. He was alive because Skyton hadn't wanted to let him die. Clearly, he hadn't wanted to let _anyone_ die. The older boy was nice enough, but 'nice' wasn't going to get them very far in the Games.

Still, other tributes being kind, taking pity on him … well, that was the reason he was still alive, so he couldn't exactly complain. And he wasn't in a position to refuse help if it was being offered. Merrik turned his attention back to the sky, where the other face belonged to the girl from—

Eight? That didn't seem quite right. "Wasn't she one of the faces last time?" Merrik asked, but he already knew the answer. She was. He was certain of it. Yes, there were two girls from Eight, but they looked absolutely nothing alike.

And Skyton was nodding his agreement. "Something's not right. That's twice they've shown Klaudia's face, and they haven't shown Connor's at all."

Connor. It took him a moment to place the name. "Your district partner?"

Skyton nodded. "We were working together, the three of us – well, and Arabel, but she didn't make it away from the bloodbath in time. I was there when Klaudia killed Connor, but we got her face instead of his."

"Instead of his," Merrik repeated. It was starting to make a little more sense. "They showed the face of the person who _did_ the killing, rather than the person who was killed. But that would mean…"

He let that hang in the air for a moment. That would mean the girl from Five was still alive somewhere. Before he could take that train of thought any farther, however, the griffin beside them started stamping wildly. It was almost as if it was frightened of something. No. No, frightened wasn't quite the right word. It was anxious. Restless. "Maybe he wants to go for another flight," Skyton offered.

"Or maybe he's hungry," Merrik mumbled, but he didn't object as Skyton climbed onto the mutt's back and then offered him a hand up. As soon as he'd settled onto the creature's back, it took off. Merrik clung tightly to its feathers as it circled the castle. Once. Twice. Then it flapped a bit farther away from the castle, turned around, and hurtled back towards it. Almost as if it was getting a running start. Well, a _flying_ start. Merrik could see a window coming up quickly. A painted window – some sort of painted glass.

Glass that shattered as the griffin crashed through it.

Merrik closed his eyes, burying his face in the mutt's feathers as the glass sprayed past him. Fortunately for him and Skyton, the griffin took the full force of the impact without even flinching, flapping down to the floor below the window and landing at least somewhat gracefully. Skyton rolled off the creature's back, and Merrik quickly followed his lead. Whatever the reason the Gamemakers wanted them here, at least the mutt didn't seem interested in killing them.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

It didn't really make any sense yet.

Mariska turned to Vashti, who seemed just as puzzled by the faces that had appeared on the wall as she was. This was the second time Klaudia's face had appeared. "Looks like the Gamemakers are playing with us," she muttered. Not that it was much of a surprise, really. The anthem was already being played seemingly at random. Why should they expect the faces to be accurate?

Vashti opened his mouth as if to respond, but before he could get the words out, there was a terrible crashing somewhere above them. Mariska almost screamed, but she managed to stop herself in time. A noise that loud almost certainly meant other tributes were nearby, and anything that might give away their position was suddenly even more dangerous.

At least they'd decided to stay down in the tunnels to wait for Barlen. That decision had probably just saved their lives. If there were tributes who were that careless about making _that_ much noise, they probably weren't worried about being found. And tributes who didn't have to worry about being found were dangerous.

Vashti motioned down the hallway in the direction Barlen had gone, pointing at the wax trail their younger ally had left on the floor. He was right; it wasn't safe to stay here any longer – not now that they were certain there were other tributes nearby. It was only a matter of time before the other tributes, whoever they were, found their way into the tunnels. It would be best if they were long gone by then. Besides, Barlen's candle had almost certainly run out by now. If they were following his trail one way and he was following it back in the other direction, they were bound to run into each other.

 _If_ he was still following the trail.

Mariska shook the thought from her head. If he wasn't, there was nothing they could do about it now. For better or worse, they had sent him off on his own. That was why Vashti had wanted him as an ally, after all. They'd needed someone they didn't mind sending on ahead to look for trouble. Someone disposable. Someone they wouldn't miss.

But she _would_ miss him if something happened, as much as she didn't want to admit it. She had been relieved that his face hadn't appeared on the wall, although that didn't mean as much as it usually did. If the faces during the anthem couldn't be trusted, then there was a chance he was already dead, and if someone had killed him…

They could be walking right into a trap.

Suddenly, she could hear footsteps in the distance. Vashti flattened himself against one wall, and Mariska did the same along the opposite wall. She couldn't see who it was yet; the footsteps were coming from around a corner up ahead.

As soon as the figure rounded the corner, however, she breathed a sigh of relief and stepped out into the hallway. "Barlen!" she called, careful not to be too loud. There was no telling who else might be nearby.

Then she saw the blood. Blood on the candlestick he was holding. Blood on the knife. Where had he gotten a knife? And there was blood on his shoulder, which he'd done his best to bandage.

Barlen stopped when he heard her voice. But only for a moment. Confusion passed over his face briefly, and then recognition. He glanced down at his arm. "Mariska! Where's Vashti? Is he all right? There were cannons, and the faces, and the faces are _wrong_ , or they were wrong, or…" The words came pouring out of him as he threw his arms around her. "She's dead. She's dead, and I killed her. I thought she was already dead. I didn't know I was killing her. Honest, I didn't. And she was trying to kill me, and I thought it was a trick, and—"

Vashti stepped out of the shadows. "The girl from Eight? You killed her?"

Barlen nodded vigorously. "I didn't mean to. I didn't know what I was doing."

Mariska froze. Klaudia. Barlen had killed Klaudia. So she _hadn't_ been dead the first time her face had appeared, and Barlen hadn't known. He hadn't realized what he was doing.

Vashti shook his head, laying a gloved hand on Barlen's shoulder. Half-hidden behind his helmet, there was a look on Vashti's face that was almost approval. Almost satisfaction. Almost _pride_. He gave Barlen's shoulder a squeeze.

"Yes, you did."

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

"Yes, you did."

Vashti removed his hand from Barlen's shoulder as the younger boy looked up at him, his eyes wide. "What do you mean? I didn't _want_ to kill her."

Vashti shook his head. "Of course not. But wanting to and meaning to are two different things. Whether you realized it at the time or not, she was trying to kill you. And you wanted to live. Some part of your brain decided you would rather kill than die, and that's a _good_ thing. That's what's going to help you stay alive in here."

For a while, at least. Long enough to be useful. The boy had already proved more helpful than Vashti would have guessed. He'd killed a tribute, which would certainly meet with approval from the audience. And now they had a weapon. Well, _Barlen_ had a weapon, but that was just as well. If he was going to be the one scouting ahead and risking his life, he would get the most use out of it. Still…

"Did she have anything else with her?" Vashti asked before Barlen could open his mouth again.

"What?"

"The girl you killed. Was she carrying any other supplies? I see you got a knife off of her."

"Looks like she got a blow in first," Mariska observed, nodding to Barlen's shoulder. "Let's take care of that; then we can worry about supplies." She opened the bag they'd taken from the girl they'd killed after the bloodbath. There were a few bandages inside – enough to patch up Barlen's shoulder, which she quickly set to work doing.

It didn't take long. The wound wasn't deep, and Barlen had already been able to stop most of the bleeding simply by bandaging it on his own with a few strips cut from his shirt. Still, a wave of nausea struck Vashti at the sight. If that had been him, he would be dead. Yes, he was wearing armor, but there would always be places the armor didn't cover. All it would take was one blow in the right place.

Vashti took a deep breath, shaking the thought from his mind. That was why they had sent Barlen on ahead, after all. It had been his job to scout out the area, and their plan had worked. Now they just had to get moving again before…

Before what? If someone else had found the entrance to the tunnels and was following them, they would certainly have heard them by now. Barlen wasn't exactly being quiet. Of course, he had no reason to. No way of knowing that someone might be coming after them. Come to think of it, _he_ had no way of knowing that. The crash had been loud, yes, but everything seemed to echo strangely in the castle. It could have been several rooms away, and they might have been able to hear it.

Still, it couldn't hurt to be careful. As soon as Barlen was all patched up, they set out, following the trail of candle wax he had left. It didn't take them long to find the body, still lying where Barlen had left it. Mariska kept her distance, as if she expected her district partner to spring to life and attack. But Vashti ventured a little closer, searching the body for anything that might be useful.

There was a little food in her pockets – a little bread and cheese, some crackers, and a small bottle of water, about half full. There was also a vial of some sort. Vashti tucked it inside his pocket. Medicine, maybe? Where would she have found that? Had the sponsors sent it? But why would the sponsors send something to _her_? And why had her face appeared twice?

That still didn't make any sense.

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

It didn't make any sense.

Mae glanced back and forth at her allies as they finished the rest of their meal. None of them seemed particularly bothered by the fact that the faces had been wrong. The Gamemakers had made a mistake. They'd shown the girl from Eight twice, and if _that_ was wrong, what else had they mixed up?

None of the others seemed to care one way or the other, though. Justus and Etora were still eating. Genevieve had finished her meal and was circling the throne, as if expecting an attack. As if anyone was really going to attack four Careers. That would be a mistake.

Wouldn't it?

Unless…

Unless Genevieve had been right about Darian joining up with his district partners. That would explain why Elliot was dead and he wasn't. _If_ Elliot was dead. If Darian was with the others from Two, it was only a matter of time before they decided the Career pack was too good of a target to pass up. That was what _she_ would do. Try to take out the rest of them while they were confused and disoriented. While they were already fighting among each other.

Genevieve and Etora had settled down a little bit, but they hadn't said much to each other during their meal. Not that any of them had said much of anything. What was there to say? Macauley and Elliot were dead. Darian was gone. If they were going to go out hunting again, they couldn't risk leaving two of them to guard the supplies, like they had before. And if they only left one, that person would be an easy target if the group from Two _did_ decide to attack.

But if they didn't leave a guard, the supplies would be free for the taking for anyone who happened to realize there was no one there. Of course, the same had been true however long Elliot and Darian had been gone before the rest of them had returned. How long had that been? Hours? And yet the food and supplies had been mostly untouched. If any of the tributes had taken something, they'd certainly left plenty behind.

But that wasn't the point – not really. There was enough to go around; there always was. But if anyone could just waltz back to the cornucopia and take whatever they wanted, then tributes wouldn't go hungry. And hungry tributes started to make mistakes. They were easier to find, and weaker when they _were_ caught. It was called the Hunger Games for a reason, after all.

Tributes who were starving didn't stand a chance.

* * *

 **Nephelle Sorena, 17  
** **District Seven**

She wouldn't stand a chance if she didn't find some water soon.

Nephelle staggered into the next room, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. She was still clutching the horn she'd found in the room with the musical instruments. The next room had held nothing but a large cauldron in the center – with absolutely nothing inside. In the next room, there was nothing but armor – most of it far too large even if she wanted to make use of it. She shook her head. All she wanted was a little water.

Well, food would be good, too. Food and water. She took another hesitant step forward, glancing around. There didn't seem to be anyone nearby, which could be good or bad. On the one hand, it meant no one was likely to jump out and attack her. On the other hand…

On the other hand, other tributes might mean supplies. Anyone else who had lasted this long had probably found _something_. Or taken something from the bloodbath at the start. Nephelle shook her head. It wasn't the first time she'd caught herself wishing she'd grabbed something. But if she'd stayed, she would probably have ended up dead, just like her allies. Just like Thomas and…

Aven. Nephelle clenched her fists, frustrated. She'd had to think just to remember her ally's name. How long had it been since the bloodbath? Two days? Three? There had been three sets of faces projected on the wall, but somehow that didn't quite seem right. Or, at least, it hadn't before. Maybe it _had_ been that long.

Maybe it had been longer.

Just then, she heard something. Some sort of rustling sound, coming from the next room. She took a step closer. Then another. She opened the door a crack, and nothing sprung out to attack her. She could see someone sitting beside one of the barrels, her back turned to Nephelle. Nephelle's heart leapt. Was the girl alone? Did she have food? Water? She wasn't watching her. Maybe she would be able to slip in long enough to grab something. That was all she needed. Just _something_.

Just enough to keep her alive.

She opened the door a little more. Then a little farther. Just wide enough for her to slide through. It didn't even creak. Immediately, she crouched lower, ducking behind one of the larger barrels in case the girl happened to turn around. She didn't. Nephelle gripped her horn a little tighter. She was safe. She was still safe. She could still turn around, go back the way she had come, and no one would know the difference.

Then she saw the bag. It was on the floor beside the other girl, just lying there. There might be food in it. There might be water. But she couldn't just _grab_ it. The girl would notice. She would catch her, and then it would all be over. There was no way she would be able to outrun the other girl. Not in her current state. Nephelle clutched the horn in her hands.

She would have to kill her. Or at the very least, knock her out. If she hit her over the head with the metal instrument, that would give her time to grab the bag and run. That might work. Maybe she didn't have to _kill_ her. After all, what were the chances that one blow from a horn would be enough to kill? But enough to leave her opponent dazed and confused? Almost certainly.

Slowly, silently, she crept up behind the other girl. Closer. Closer. She was standing almost right behind her.

Then she saw the other two.

They were sleeping – or, at least, they appeared to be. The two boys had been hidden behind the barrels, but now she was close enough to see them. _Shit_. If she woke them, it would all be over. Which meant she couldn't kill the girl who was on watch. If she killed her, the cannon would wake the others. Not that she'd _wanted_ to kill her, anyway. She just wanted food. And from the look of these three, they were doing just fine. They could spare a little…

As silently as she could, she took a deep breath. Then she raised the horn up, the shadow flickering on the wall, and she immediately realized.

That was a mistake.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

She saw the shadow just in time.

Shanali let out a scream as the weapon came down, but she managed to roll out of the way just in time. She couldn't see exactly what it was, but she saw the girl lunging towards her, and immediately reached for her own dagger, which was lying at her side. She didn't have time to think. With one quick movement, she drove her dagger into the girl's chest.

The other girl fell, gasping, coughing, spitting blood. Shanali could see tears in her eyes. "Water," she gasped. "I just … just wanted …"

 _Boom._ The cannon sounded just as Kilian and Ronan reached her side. "What happened?" Ronan asked.

"Are you all right?"

"Who is she?"

"Was she attacking you?"

"What's that in her hand?"

Shanali barely heard their questions. She inched her way closer to the other girl. Her eyes were still open, staring at nothing. There _was_ something in her hand. Something Shanali had assumed was a weapon. But it wasn't.

It was a horn.

Shanali's stomach churned. The other girl hadn't been armed at all. She'd been about to hit her with a horn. She must have been desperate. Desperate enough to think that trying to steal from the three of them was a good idea. "She just wanted water," Shanali whispered.

For a moment, the questions stopped. There was silence. "Water?" Ronan asked.

Shanali shook her head. "That's what she said. She just wanted water. That's all she wanted – just a little water." She had died over a little bit of water. Shanali had _killed_ her because she'd wanted a little of their water.

But she hadn't known that.

There was no way she _could_ have known that.

It had looked like the girl was attacking her. She _had_ been bringing the horn down. But there was no way that would have killed her. Was there? She would probably have just taken some of their supplies and run off while she could. That was what Shanali would have done if…

If it was just her, rather than the three of them. That was the only thing separating her from the girl in front of her. She had allies; the other girl had been alone. Or if she _had_ had allies, they were gone. Dead. Just like her.

"Is that a trumpet?" Kilian asked, confused. "What was she going to do with that?"

"Nothing," Shanali said quietly. "She couldn't have done anything with it. I thought she was going to kill me, but she … she never really had a chance."

Ronan laid a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Shanali hesitated. Physically, she was fine. The other girl hadn't laid a hand on her. But she felt like she was going to be sick. There was so much blood. Slowly, she reached over and shut the other girl's eyes. She couldn't admit that – not while the audience was watching.

And the audience was _always_ watching.

* * *

 **Kilian Romane, 17  
** **District Eleven**

The audience would be watching them.

Kilian held his breath, waiting for Shanali's response. She looked like she was going to be sick. Hell, _he_ felt like he was going to be sick, and he hadn't just killed someone. Shanali had. But the audience would be watching, waiting to see how she handled it. Whether she was going to crack.

"I'm all right," she said at last. "Just a bit startled. I wasn't expecting it to be that quick." She managed a nervous chuckle.

Good. That was good. The audience would get a kick out of it. And he had to admit, it made him feel a little better, too. Yes, the other girl hadn't really been armed, but she'd been trying to steal their supplies. And in the heat of the moment, there was no way Shanali could have known that she didn't have a real weapon somewhere. She had fought. She had killed. And she had made it look easy.

The audience would like that.

Sure enough, the next thing he heard was a quiet pinging noise coming from above, and a parachute floated down from the ceiling. Shanali looked up, startled, as it landed by her feet. There was an 11 on the package, but it was pretty obvious which of them it was intended for. "Looks like someone likes your handiwork," Kilian offered, nodding towards the body.

Shanali froze. Only for a moment, but it was there. His comment had caught her off guard – maybe even disturbed her. _Shit_. He'd been _trying_ to make a joke. Trying to lighten the mood. But Shanali took a step away from him as she opened the package.

Inside were three water bottles and three pairs of glasses. Shanali hesitated when she saw the water bottles – exactly what the girl who had attacked her had been looking for. The look on her face left no doubt that she'd made the connection, but she said nothing. Instead, she laid the water bottles on the ground and handed each of the others one of the pairs of glasses. "Night vision glasses?" Ronan asked.

Kilian nodded as he put them on. "I think so, yes."

Ronan shook his head. "But why? It's not that dark in here – not with all these candles. And there have been plenty of them in the other rooms, too. Sure, it's not daylight, but it's not exactly pitch black."

Kilian glanced around the room. "But it _could_ be."

"What do you mean?" Shanali asked.

Kilian nodded to the door that lay slightly open on the other side of the room. "Looks like the other girl snuck in through there. Opened the door and just slid through, and we didn't even notice – not until she was right on top of us. But if we shut the door again and snuff out the candles, it _will_ be pitch black. Anyone who comes in here will have to open the door, and suddenly light comes pouring through. That's a dead giveaway, wouldn't you say?"

Ronan cringed a little. Maybe 'dead' giveaway had been a poor choice of words. "What about the body?"

He hadn't even thought about that. What _were_ they supposed to do with the body? There had to be some way for the Gamemakers to collect them, but not while they were in the same room. Kilian glanced at Shanali. "Maybe we should find a different room, then," he offered. "We can't close all the doors to this one, anyway."

It was true. There was a door leading back to the cornucopia that they wouldn't be able to close. Maybe it would be a good time to leave, anyway. Shanali's scream might have drawn attention from the Careers. Sure, the Gamemakers and the audience were probably satisfied with what Shanali had already done tonight, but that didn't mean the Careers wouldn't take the opportunity to attack if they saw one.

Shanali nodded her agreement. "Which way do you think we should go?"

Ronan glanced around. "Well, that one leads back to the cornucopia. That one leads back to where we heard that tapping before. So … that one?" He gestured towards the only other door.

Kilian shrugged. "Sounds good to me." The three of them headed for the door, with only a glance or two back at the body they were leaving behind. Maybe the night vision glasses had simply been a hint that it was time to get moving.

Maybe it was best to leave while they still could.

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

Maybe it was best to leave while they still could.

Retro sat up slowly as Ti gave his shoulder a gentle shake. It was time to trade watches. But the truth was, he'd been awake since the last cannon. How long ago had that been? It had felt like hours, but maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him because he was trying to get to sleep. Retro rubbed his eyes. "Do you think maybe it's time to go?"

Ti raised an eyebrow. "Go where?"

He didn't really have a good answer for that. Just a feeling that maybe they'd pushed their luck a little too long. They'd been sitting here next to a huge pile of food for quite a while, and nothing had happened. Apparently, the Gamemakers had been busy elsewhere. But it was only a matter of time before that changed. How long could they expect to just sit here and do nothing?

But the question remained. Go _where_? What else were they supposed to do? It wasn't as if they were armed. It wasn't as if there were any other tributes nearby that they could attack. They'd been prepared to attack the girl from Eight, but she was gone, and they hadn't seen or heard anybody else since then.

But it was only a matter of time.

"I don't know where," Retro admitted. "But it's only a matter of time before someone finds us, right?"

Ti shook his head. "Well, that's true whether we stay here _or_ keep moving, don't you think?"

There wasn't much to say to that, either. He was right. The whole purpose of moving on would be to find other tributes, after all. If they just kept moving and _didn't_ find anyone, the Gamemakers were just as likely to get annoyed with them as they were if they stayed put. They needed to have a plan, a goal. And right now, they didn't.

Ti lay down, stretching out along the floor. "Look, let me get a little more sleep; then we can figure it out. Okay?"

Retro nodded. That sounded fair. Just because _he_ hadn't been able to get to sleep didn't mean he shouldn't let Ti get some rest. "Wake me up in a few hours," Ti yawned. "Or if something happens, of course."

"I will," Retro promised. What _was_ he supposed to do if something happened? Besides wake Ti, of course. What were they supposed to fight with? Where were they supposed to run? Retro shifted a little, wondering what Ti would do if he _did_ wake him up because of an attack.

He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

He'd hoped they would have found a way out by now.

Wes paced the room again, as if the tenth or eleventh time around might be the time he actually found something useful that might help them escape. But there was nothing. There were plenty of weapons, of course, but they'd already tried to pry open the door, with no luck. There was nothing they might be able to fashion into an explosive, and none of them were really confident enough that they wouldn't blow the entire room up if they tried, anyway. There were bits of rope and chain, but none of them had been long enough to reach the window.

Even if they _could_ reach the window, and even if they found a way to open it, what were they supposed to do then? Climb down? Try to find another open window? Neither of those sounded like good options.

Neither did staying put, of course, but they didn't have much of a choice at the moment. They'd eaten a little, already careful of rationing the food they had. They had no idea, after all, how long it would have to last. They could be trapped here quite a while.

That should have been a good thing. As long as they were alone in here, they were safe. Safe from the other tributes, at least. But how long would the Gamemakers let them stay put?

"What else do they expect us to do?"

It took Wes a moment to realize he'd said it out loud. Now everyone else was looking at him. "Who?" Charu asked.

"The Gamemakers. They have to realize we're trying to get out. But we don't exactly have much to work with. What's the point in trapping us in here? The point of the Games is to kill people, after all. How are we supposed to do that if we're stuck in this room? What do they expect us to do? Kill each other?"

Consus snorted. "That's probably _exactly_ what they expect us to do."

 _Oh_. He hadn't actually meant it. But now that Consus said it, it made sense. The Gamemakers were waiting for them to turn on each other, to start blaming each other for their predicament. "Well, we're not going to," Wes said emphatically, waiting for the others to agree.

Aleyn was the first to nod. "Of course not. We'll find some other way out."

"And we've got enough food to last us quite a while," Consus agreed.

"Thanks to you," Charu pointed out. "That was good thinking, grabbing so much from the pile."

 _Smart._ She was making sure she was on Consus' good side, which wasn't a bad idea. If anyone was going to snap and decide to start a fight among them, it might be him. He was the one who'd had the guts to go back to the cornucopia, after all, even if it meant risking a fight with the Careers. How long would it be before he decided the rest of them might not be worth keeping around?

 _Stop it_. They'd only been trapped for a few hours, at the most, and he was already getting paranoid. Consus wasn't any more likely to snap than he was, and chances were _something_ would happen before then. The Gamemakers weren't just going to leave them in here forever.

Were they?

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

Were they finally asleep?

Etora took one more look around at her allies. Justus had taken the first watch, and then Genevieve. They'd even let Mae take a turn before apparently deciding they couldn't avoid letting her keep watch forever. Etora shook her head. What did they think she was going to do? Try to stab all three of them before the cannons woke them?

No. No, but she couldn't stay here much longer. Genevieve was starting to get suspicious. The fact that those suspicions were completely unfounded meant nothing. And they _were_ unfounded. Probably. Darian probably wasn't with their district partners. But even she couldn't be certain – not _completely_ certain – that Genevieve wasn't right about him.

Genevieve was wrong about _her_ , of course. She hadn't been planning on leaving the pack – not until now. But Genevieve had made it pretty clear that she didn't trust her. Maybe it was better to get out of the way now, before the pack split completely.

The pack always split eventually, of course. That much was a certainty going into the Games. She'd known from the start that they couldn't stay together forever. But she hadn't expected the split to happen quite this soon. It was only … what? The second day of the Games? Maybe the third? There wasn't really a good way to tell, but there were still twenty-two tributes left. More than half of their original number. That was a bit early, wasn't it?

Etora shook the thought from her head. Yes, there were still more than half the number of tributes there had been at the start. But they'd already lost almost half the pack. Probably. There was something wrong with the faces that had appeared, but surely Macauley and Elliot would have come back by now if they were still alive. It wasn't as if the rest of them were trying not to be found. They were right were anyone would expect the Careers to be.

As for Darian, he probably wasn't coming back, either. Whether or not Genevieve was right about him joining up with their district partners, he'd been gone too long to simply have lost his way. He was gone for good.

So maybe it was time for her to disappear, too.

No, not just 'maybe.' It _was_ time to leave; she was sure of it. Whatever advantages there might be to staying were outweighed by the dangers. If there were only four of them, they couldn't leave two of them to guard the supplies. That would mean only two of them could go hunting, which wouldn't be a good option.

So they would have to leave only one, if any. And none of them were good option. Justus wouldn't want to stay; he wanted to be in charge, which was no good if there was no one to be in charge _of_. Genevieve was too impatient to stick around the cornucopia doing nothing. Mae would seem like an easy target for anyone who happened to find her alone at the cornucopia. And the others wouldn't want to leave Etora alone, in case she simply disappeared like Darian had.

Like she was about to do.

Etora took a deep breath and packed a few more things into her bag. A little more food. A blowgun with a few darts. A couple more knives. Nothing the others were likely to miss. Nothing that would slow her down. She couldn't afford to move slowly once she was away from the pack.

As quietly as she could, she headed for the door she'd been eyeing for a while, directly across from the direction they'd gone before. Yes, it was probably the direction the others would go once they decided to go hunting again. But with any luck, it would be hours before then – more than enough time to put a good bit of distance between them, or to take a left turn instead of a right after passing through the door.

Only once she'd reached the door without any incident did Etora risk a glance back at the others. Mae was watching her. _Damn._ She'd thought all of the others were asleep. But Mae was sitting up, watching her with curious eyes. But if she was going to wake the others, she would have done it by now. Wouldn't she? Maybe she realized what Etora did – that letting her go quietly would be the best way to avoid a fight among the Careers. That was better, wasn't it? If she left quietly, then none of the others would have to choose sides. That was certainly better for _them_.

And it was better for her, too. No matter who the others sided with, the chances of her coming out of a fight between the Careers completely unharmed seemed pretty slim. And it was still early. Too early to put a target on her back. If she left now, without causing a rift between the others, they wouldn't really have a reason to come after her, even if Mae told them which direction she had gone.

Still gripping her dagger tightly, Etora took a step through the door. Then another. Still, Mae did nothing. _Okay, then._ She turned and ran, waiting for some sound from the others, some sign that Mae had woken them. Nothing. Good. Now all she had to do was get as far away as she could.

Then she could worry about the rest.

* * *

 **Tamsin Lane  
** **District Eleven Mentor**

At least she wouldn't have to worry about Shanali for a while.

Tamsin yawned as Shanali, Kilian, and Ronan settled down in the next room, the one filled with armor. It hadn't taken them long to shut the doors and snuff out the candles. Now Kilian was keeping watch, and the other two were sleeping soundly.

Across the arena, most of the other tributes were resting, as well. Maybe they'd managed to maintain some sense of when it was nighttime. It was around midnight, after all. The second night of the Games. Thirteen tributes were dead already.

And Shanali had killed, which was certain to keep the audience happy for a while. Sure, it hadn't been a particularly long fight or a difficult one, but she'd proven she was willing to kill. That was worth a lot, as far as the audience was concerned. The Gamemakers would probably let them be for a while.

Probably. There was always the fact that there was a griffin in the next room, but Merrik and Skyton had seemed content to settle down for the night, as well. Skyton was sleeping peacefully on the mutt's back, and Merrik was curled up beside them. They were probably counting on the mutt scaring away any tributes who happened to find them. And considering there was only one way in or out of the room – and that the one door led to the room where Shanali, Kilian, and Ronan had settled down – they would probably sleep undisturbed for a while.

The tributes from Two, meanwhile, had settled down at the base of the stairs, figuring it would be a good vantage point. They already knew there weren't any other tributes on the stairs, so the chances of someone sneaking up on them were pretty slim. In any case, the only other tribute in the area was Etora, who had found her way to the treasure room. And even she was making her way in the opposite direction.

Back at the center of the arena, the three remaining Careers from One were resting undisturbed. Mae had taken over keeping watch when she'd seen Etora sneaking off, and hadn't bothered waking any of the others yet. Maybe she didn't want to explain that she'd simply let Etora sneak off. Maybe she wasn't tired. In any case, it would probably be a while before she woke either of the others.

A few rooms away, Retro was still keeping watch while Ti slept, both of them unaware that Macauley had settled down in the next room. For a little while, she'd been eyeing the door that led back to the cornucopia, but had apparently decided against heading back in that direction for now. Instead, she'd curled up in the large wardrobe, sleeping soundly for the moment.

Far below any of the other groups, Vashti, Mariska, and Barlen were making their way through the underground maze, heading away from the room where the griffin had crashed through the window. Or, at least, they'd started out heading away from it. Tamsin couldn't tell exactly where they were now, but they'd apparently decided that moving on together would be safer for a while. They certainly didn't seem interested in settling down for the night.

Neither did Wes' group, but they didn't have much of a choice. The four of them were still awake, eating a little more of the supplies that Consus had procured from the cornucopia. It was only a matter of time before they would have to get some rest, but none of them seemed to want to be the one to suggest it. Wes had hit on the right idea earlier without realizing it; the Gamemakers were waiting for them to turn on each other. Any suggestion that the others go to sleep would immediately raise suspicions about whoever had offered to stay awake.

But they couldn't stay awake forever, either – not without getting irritable and restless. Tamsin glanced over at Violet, who was passed out on one of the couches. Not that Tamsin could really blame her for that. There wasn't much that even the most competent mentors could do about a situation like this. There wasn't really anything they could send, even if the sponsors were willing. They already had food, water, and weapons. It was just a matter of how soon one of them decided to _use_ one of those weapons.

The gift she had sent Shanali, however, had served its purpose quite well. It had gotten the three of them moving, not to mention reinforcing the idea that Shanali had done the right thing. Not the easy thing, by any means. She would probably feel guilty for a while, considering Nephelle hadn't had anything more dangerous than a musical instrument at her disposal. But she was alive, and she and her allies would probably be safe for a while.

"Are you sure the water wasn't overkill?" Elijah asked, taking a seat on the next couch.

Tamsin looked up, shrugging. "Maybe. But the audience liked it. Nothing like sending them exactly what the tribute she killed was looking for. Besides, I wanted to see what she'd do."

Elijah shook his head. "And?"

"And what?"

"And did she pass the test? She looked a bit rattled, but—"

"But that's good," Tamsin finished. "That's what the audience wants to see. They don't want to see hardened killers, fighting without mercy or remorse. Or, at least, they don't want an arena full of them. One or two? That's entertaining. Any more than that, and they wouldn't seem like teenagers anymore. And that's the fun – watching kids try to deal with an impossible situation. I'd say she's handling herself pretty well." She leaned back a little, smiling.

"Let's just hope they can keep it up."

* * *

" _Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill."_


	39. Round About

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Just a reminder to vote in the final eight poll.

* * *

 **Day Three  
** **Round About**

* * *

 **Toshiro Koyama  
** **District Two Mentor**

Sometimes there weren't any good options.

Tosh shook his head as Etora made her way farther away from the other Careers. Maybe it shouldn't have come as a surprise that the pack had dissolved so quickly. They weren't really Careers, after all – not most of them, anyway. The bloodbath had gone well for them, but as soon as things had started to go wrong, the alliance had crumbled.

There were no _good_ options when that happened, but Etora had made the best choice she could. She'd left without a fuss, without causing a fight she probably wouldn't have won. If she'd killed one of the others before leaving, they would have had no choice but to come after her. As it was, Mae had let her leave peacefully, and the others didn't have a reason to go after her immediately even if Mae told them which way she had gone.

And that didn't seem particularly likely. Why let her go, only to help the others hunt her down? That was a move a hardened Career might make, but not someone like Mae. Maybe she hadn't wanted to risk a fight that might leave some of her allies injured or dead. Maybe she simply hadn't known what to do. Or maybe she was hoping that Etora might return the favor if they ran into each other again.

Maybe she was right.

"Anyone sitting here?"

Tosh looked up as Balthasar took a seat beside him without even waiting for an answer. He shook his head. Some of the other mentors had decided it was a good time to get some sleep. And maybe they were right; a lot of the tributes had been sleeping for hours. Underground, Vashti, Mariska, and Barlen were still on the move, making their way through the tunnels. And Margo, Annemae, and Darian were stirring. They hadn't said where they were going – not out loud, at least – but there was one obvious choice. It wouldn't take them long to decide to head for the cornucopia.

And it wouldn't be hard to nudge Etora in their direction. That was probably why Balthasar was here. And maybe it was worth considering. She and Darian could pretend it had been the plan all along to dissolve the pack and rejoin their district partners. Margo and Annemae would probably go for it, and the audience would love it. It was an interesting idea. Maybe even a good one.

But something in his gut told him otherwise. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass."

Balthasar raised an eyebrow. "Was I that obvious?"

Tosh chuckled. "Transparently. I haven't been doing this as long as you, but it's only been seven years since _I_ was the one in the arena. It's a tempting prospect, but I think there's something to be said for not putting all four eggs in one basket." If all four of their tributes joined forces and something went wrong…

Balthasar smirked. "Don't you think that should be their choice?"

"What do you mean?"

"You could send Etora a message, something to clue her in to the fact that the others are nearby, and let her decide whether or not she wants to join them."

Tosh thought that over for a moment, but then shook his head. "No."

Balthasar chuckled. "That's it? Just 'no'?"

"That's it. As soon as I send her something, she _has_ to act – one way or another. Right now, she's on her own. The audience is paying attention to her for her own sake, not because of what she might contribute to a Career alliance. As soon as she knows where the others are, she has to think about how it will look to the audience if she _doesn't_ join them." He shook his head.

"I think she's better off on her own."

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

Maybe she was better off on her own.

Etora glanced this way and that as she entered the next room, which seemed to be filled with musical instruments. So far, she hadn't seen a sign of any of the other tributes. Not that she was really looking for a fight at the moment. Right now, she just wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and the rest of the pack.

Didn't she?

Etora stopped near one of the larger instruments, pausing for a moment to get a good look around. There was another door to her right – a door that would lead back closer to the cornucopia. The others would be expecting her to run, to get as far away from them as possible. What if the safest place was actually right under their noses?

It was certainly worth a look. If the others _were_ looking for her already, after all, this wasn't the way that they would go. Mae knew which direction she had gone, after all, and could easily lead them the right way if she wanted to. If she _didn't_ want to find Etora, she would probably lead them in the opposite direction entirely. Either way, this might be the best choice.

Etora took a deep breath as she made her way towards the door. Nothing. Still nothing. And if it turned out this was a mistake, she could always head back the other way. If there were tributes in the next room, she could handle them. That was what she'd been telling herself about every new room since leaving the others. Even if she found someone, she could handle them. She could take care of herself.

She already had three kills, after all – more than any of the others. As far as she knew, at least. There hadn't been any cannons since she'd left Justus, Genevieve, and Mae. So if any of the Careers _did_ have more kills, it would be Darian. Or Macauley or Elliot, but they were gone.

Maybe.

Etora quietly slipped through the next door. She didn't see anyone. Or much of anything at all. The room was darker than the others, with only a few candles. A large cauldron sat in the center of the room, giving off a slight greenish glow. Etora took a few steps closer. The cauldron was big; like everything else in the castle, it looked like it had been made for a giant. It was easily large enough to hide a few tributes inside. It would be the perfect hiding place if someone had heard her coming.

Which meant it was the first place she had to check.

Slowly, she crept closer. Closer. Standing on her toes, she managed to peer over the edge. Nothing. There was nothing inside – no tributes, and not much of anything else, either. Nothing but a bit of green slime that coated the sides. Etora quickly pulled her hand away, wiping it off. It had a strange smell. Maybe—

Maybe it was poisonous. Maybe not. She couldn't be entirely sure. Her hand seemed fine, but maybe she could use it to coat her weapons. Or at least the darts she'd taken. That would be a start. Blades weren't generally a good thing to coat with poison. All it would take was an opponent getting ahold of her weapon for a moment. Just long enough for them to scratch her with it. Darts, on the other hand…

It was somewhere to start, at least. Etora quickly removed the blowgun and darts from her bag, carefully coating the darts in the liquid. As she was peering over the edge of the cauldron, however, something caught her eye. Something at the bottom. It looked almost like a door. A trap door of sorts in the bottom of the giant pot.

Etora couldn't help a smile. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Carefully, she slung her supplies into the cauldron and clambered over the edge. No one would be able to see her, but she would still be able to hear anyone who came into the room. They would never know what hit them, and then she could open the trap door and—

One thing at a time. First, she had to make sure she wouldn't be hurtling down into nothingness once the door opened. Carefully, she lifted it open. Sure enough, there was a staircase leading down into … what? Another level of the castle? Another room? How deep did it go?

She would have to find out later. Right now, she had a good hiding place, as well as a way to escape if more than one tribute happened to find her – or if the darts weren't quite as lethal as she'd thought. Etora settled down against the side of the cauldron, smiling a little for the audience – and for Tosh, if he was watching.

She was doing just fine on her own.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

They had been doing just fine.

Genevieve rolled over a little, surprised by the sudden pinging sound. It was unmistakably the sound of a parachute, but what would the sponsors be sending? Sure, they'd lost a few members of the pack, but there was nothing the sponsors could send that would fix that. And they had all the supplies they could possibly want. So what…?

"Where's Etora?" Justus' voice broke through the pinging sound. Genevieve sat up, startled, as if the younger girl might jump out and attack them at any moment. But Etora was nowhere to be seen. "She was keeping watch," Genevieve muttered. "We let her keep watch, and now she's gone. Perfect."

Stupid. Stupid of them to trust her to keep watch. But what choice had they had? They couldn't just stay awake forever. Mae was rubbing her eyes sleepily; the pinging had probably woken her, too. They were just lucky Etora hadn't decided to take them out before leaving.

Finally, the package landed between the three of them. Sure enough, it had a 1 on it – as well as an "M." Justus picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and handed it to Mae. "Looks like this one's for you."

Mae looked as surprised as the rest of them, but she took the package and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper. More like parchment, really. Very old-looking, even though there was no way it was really _that_ old. Like everything else in the arena, it was designed to look that way. It was all for show.

It was a show she would have loved, if she'd been the one watching it. It would have been exciting, watching the tension that was building in the Career pack, wondering whether they were going to pull together or crumble completely. It would have been exhilarating to see one of them get a package from the sponsors. It would all have been wonderful, if it wasn't her life that was on the line.

But it _was_ her life. Genevieve glanced over Mae's shoulder at the piece of paper, keeping a careful distance, as if it might spring up and bite her. Of course, it didn't do anything of the sort. It simply sat there in Mae's hands while the three of them took a good look. It was a map of sorts. There were clearly rooms, with the throne room in the center. In one direction was the room they had explored earlier. Earlier that day? The day before? She couldn't really be certain. But a rough drawing of a bed in one of the rooms left no doubt which direction was which.

Most of the other rooms didn't have markings, aside from five red dots. One of them was in the center of the throne room – perhaps marking where the three of them were. The others were spread out across the map. Were they other groups of tributes? If so, they would have to move quickly. If the map showed where the tributes were _now_ , they couldn't count on them staying there for long.

Genevieve glanced at Justus, who nodded. They could worry about Etora later. Right now, they had a plan. Or if not a plan, than at least an idea of which way to go. One of the red dots was closer than the others – in a room a few to the right of where the bedroom seemed to be. Mae turned the map in her hands until it was facing the right direction. "The nearest dot is that way," she remarked matter-of-factly, pointing at the door.

And that was all that needed to be said. It was clear what the sponsors were trying to do. And if they refused to play along, things weren't likely to go well. "I guess we'll just have to leave the supplies as they are," Justus concluded, glancing around as if he expected someone to immediately take the opportunity to rush in and grab what they wanted.

Genevieve nodded. There wasn't a choice. If Etora was gone, if it was really just the three of them now, then they couldn't afford to leave anyone behind. She quickly shouldered her bag, chose a long dagger and a hatchet, and grinned at Justus.

"Let's get moving, then."

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

"Let's get moving, then."

Mae nodded as she stuffed a little more food in her bag. The others quickly did the same. Even if they weren't gone for long, there was always a chance that someone would come along and decide to ransack the cornucopia. They weren't likely to be able to carry off everything, of course, but they could set it on fire or something. Or they could poison it. That wasn't a bad idea, really. They wouldn't even have to poison all of it – just enough that the three of them who were left could never be certain that it was safe.

Of course, the same thing could have happened when they'd left Darian and Elliot to guard the supplies. Anything could have happened to the food, and they hadn't even bothered to check. What if it was already poisoned? What if…?

"Mae?" Justus' voice shook her from her thoughts. "Good to go?"

Mae looked up, startled, then back at the map. He was waiting for her because she was the one with the map. For whatever reason, the sponsors had chosen to send something to _her_. That made her a valuable member of the group. If not for that, would Justus and Genevieve have simply left without her, maybe suggesting that she guard the cornucopia while they were gone?

Would they ever have come back for her?

Mae nodded. Maybe she should have gone with Etora. She'd thought about it, as the younger girl had slipped off into the shadows. She'd thought about asking Etora if she wanted company. But she hadn't quite worked up the nerve. What if Etora had said no? What if simply asking had woken the others? Or what if Etora had said yes, but suggested that they should _kill_ the others? One on three was one sort of fight; two on two was another sort entirely, especially if two of them were asleep. She and Etora _could_ have killed the other two before they'd had a chance to wake up, if they'd timed it right.

But…

But they were her district partners. That still counted for something. Maybe not much, but something. Enough to keep her from killing them in their sleep without a really good reason. She didn't _have_ a really good reason, and now they were the only allies she had left. She couldn't afford to lose them.

And they couldn't afford to lose her, either, which was why they were still waiting by the door. Mae hurried to catch up, map in hand, grateful that at least the closest dot wasn't in the direction Etora had gone. In fact, none of the dots were. So if they weren't other tributes, what were they supposed to be?

Mae shook the thought from her head. She couldn't ask that sort of question out loud – not without revealing that she _knew_ the dots didn't represent the other tributes, and _how_ she knew that. And if the others knew that she had let Etora go, then…

Then what? It hadn't done any harm. In fact, it was probably the best way things could have turned out. Genevieve already seemed more relaxed now that her biggest competition was gone. And Justus seemed to be relieved that they were doing something again, that they had a purpose. As for herself…

She was alive. That was something. And someone in the audience – or maybe one of the Gamemakers – had decided that _she_ was the one worth sending a gift to. That was good, wasn't it? It meant they thought she had a shot. They could have sent the map to any of them. Hell, they could have simply said it was for _all_ of them, and let them share it. But they hadn't. It was _hers_.

"Barrels." Genevieve's disappointed voice broke through her thoughts. "A lot of big barrels."

Sure enough, the room was full of giant wooden barrels. "Maybe there's someone hiding in one of them," Justus offered hopefully. "It wouldn't be a bad hiding spot, really. Close enough to the cornucopia to grab supplies if we happen to be gone, a quick place to take cover if someone's coming. Let's have a look."

One by one, he and Genevieve opened the barrels, but something else had caught Mae's eye. Something on the floor, only a corner peeking out from under one of the barrels. "It's not what's _in_ the barrels," she said aloud. "It's what's _under_ them."

Immediately, Justus and Genevieve stopped sifting through the barrels and helped her uncover what turned out to be a door. Some sort of trap door. "Maybe that's what the red dots are," Mae reasoned. "They're not tributes at all. They're doors."

Genevieve shook her head, pointing to the red dot in the center of the map. "So you're telling me there was a trap door in the other room? Where?"

Mae stopped short. She had a point. They'd shifted the supplies around enough that they would have noticed a door in the floor. "I don't know," she admitted as Justus opened the door, revealing a staircase that led down into the darkness. "But I don't think there are any tributes here, so…"

"So we might as well have a look down here," Justus agreed, peering down the staircase. Mae nodded a little as she followed the others down, closing the door behind her.

It was certainly worth a look.

* * *

 **Ti Bulgur, 14  
** **District Nine**

It was certainly a good thing they hadn't gone back that way.

Ti nodded silently at Retro, who had woken him when the voices in the other room had gotten louder. But the Careers didn't seem interested in coming after them. In fact, the voices were getting quieter. From the sound of it, they'd found something in the floor. Some sort of trap door. And that was a good thing to know, certainly, but it wasn't a direction they wanted to go.

Still, they should probably get moving. The Careers being driven this close to them couldn't have been an accident. The Gamemakers were trying to get them moving. But moving _where_? And what were they supposed to do? They had plenty of food, but no way to fight. Unless…

Retro had apparently put it together, as well. "If the Careers are in there, then maybe…" He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air. Maybe there was no one left back at the cornucopia. They had plenty of food, but the chance to get some weapons wasn't something they could afford to pass up.

"All right," Ti agreed. "But let's head back this way, instead." He pointed to the other door – the one that didn't lead back to the barrel room. "Just in case they _meant_ to be that loud and left someone to guard the trap door."

Retro nodded his agreement, tucking a little more food into his pockets. Yes, there was plenty of food at the cornucopia, as well, but they wouldn't want to stay there any longer than necessary. "Ready?" Ti asked, heading for the door.

"Almost." Retro was still stuffing his pockets. Ti sighed. Retro was the one who had wanted to get moving the night before, and now _he_ was stalling. Maybe he didn't want to go back to the cornucopia, and had only suggested it because there wasn't any other option. Maybe…

Maybe he just needed a little nudge. Ti made his way to the door, glancing back at Retro, who looked up and started to follow. By the time Ti made it to the door, Retro was hurrying across the room to catch up. "There, that's the spirit," Ti grinned, stepping through the door. "We just head back to the cornucopia, get a few weapons, and we're good to—"

Just as he stepped through the door, however, something struck him. No, that wasn't quite right. It didn't strike him as much as it struck _through_ him. A long, thin blade, sliding straight through his chest. "Run!" Ti gasped as he crumpled to the floor.

He just hoped Retro would listen.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

Part of her hoped Retro would listen.

Macauley drew her rapier out of the boy's chest as his cannon sounded. If everything continued as it had been, the anthem would soon follow, and her face would appear on the wall. That had been the pattern, after all – excluding the bloodbath. Or maybe counting the bloodbath as one group of tributes, rather than seven. Two faces of those who had died. Two of the killers. Then two deaths. Now…

But nothing happened. Well, nothing except the fact that her district partner was now sprinting out of the room as fast as his legs would carry him. Macauley raced after him. She had to at least _seem_ to be trying to catch him. And there was no reason not to – not really. She hadn't hesitated to kill his ally. Come to think of it, she'd killed _both_ of his allies now. The boy from Twelve during the bloodbath, and now the boy from Nine. Maybe it was only fitting to finish him off, too.

Something stopped her, though – or at least slowed her down as she made her way across the room. He was her district partner, after all. And some people considered it bad form to kill a district partner unless it was necessary. Of course, that really only applied to other _Careers_. Any other year, her district partner would have been a Career. They would have stood a chance in a fight. A _fair_ fight.

But Retro wasn't a Career. He was just a kid. A kid who would have to die eventually, so why not now? Macauley hurried into the next room, which was full of barrels. And … and a trap door. A trap door that lay open on the floor. That must be where he'd gone, since she couldn't see him anywhere else. He wouldn't be stupid enough to try to hide in one of the barrels, would he?

No. No, he must have gone down the trap door. Macauley slid through the door, closing it behind her. It led to a staircase, which spiraled down into the darkness. Macauley clutched her rapier as she kept going. Down. Down. How far did it go? Surely she should have caught him by now. He couldn't have _that_ much of a head start.

Macauley took a deep breath as she reached the bottom, but then she burst out laughing. The other three Careers turned to her, startled. It was a moment before Justus spoke. "Macauley?"

"Yeah." She shook her head. "You didn't see anyone else come down the stairs, did you?"

Genevieve shook her head. "No. Just you. We were just deciding which way to go when you…" She nodded towards the door. "How did you know we were here?"

"I didn't," Macauley admitted. "I was chasing someone, and the door was open. Figured they went down here."

Mae raised an eyebrow. "We shut the door when we came down. Whoever you were chasing must have opened it to throw you off their scent."

Macauley nodded, catching her breath. "Smart." Too smart. She should have thought of that. The door had been too obvious. Still, she had made a kill. She wiped the blood off her rapier and onto the lowest step, smiling at the rest of the group. "So what did I miss?"

As it turned out, she hadn't missed much, aside from the fact that Etora was gone, and Darian and Elliot apparently weren't coming back. "Although if you're still alive…" Justus trailed off, letting the rest hang in the air. If _she_ was alive, then the other two might be, as well.

Macauley said nothing. She had thought she had the cannons figured out, but if she was right, the next group of faces should have shown up by now. Maybe she had been wrong, after all. "What about you?" Justus asked, nodding at her rapier, which still had a little blood on it. "Looks like you've been busy."

Macauley nodded. "Turns out, the door in the bedroom leads to some sort of dungeon that only opens from the outside. I got trapped inside, but there's another group in there now – unless they've figured out a way to get out. Killed the boy from Four, too. And one of the little boys from Nine – the one who was working with my district partner. He's the one I was chasing."

"Nice," Genevieve remarked, but there was something in her voice. Jealousy, maybe? After all, Macauley had three kills now, while these three hadn't killed anyone since the bloodbath.

Macauley smirked. "Don't worry; you've got time to catch up." She glanced around at the maze of tunnels leading off in different directions.

"So which way do we go now?"

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

Where was he supposed to go now?

Retro finally stopped to catch his breath as he reached the pile of supplies where the cornucopia would normally have been. He was exhausted, but he couldn't stop here. Not for long. There was no telling when the Careers might come back, or how long it would be before someone else realized there was nobody at the cornucopia.

But he had to catch his breath. Retro sank to the floor near one of the larger piles, tears finally escaping as he pulled his knees to his chest. Ti was dead, but it could have been him. It _would_ have been him, if he'd been a little bit faster. If he hadn't stopped to pack up a few more supplies. Macauley could have caught both of them, and he would be dead.

Or if he had been a little slower when he'd run from the room. Or if she had been a little bit faster. Or if he hadn't thought to open the trap door. Or if she hadn't fallen for his trick. If any _one_ of those things had gone wrong, he would be dead.

But he wasn't.

Not yet.

Okay. Okay, _think_. Weapons. That was why he and Ti had wanted to head back to the cornucopia in the first place. If anything else happened – no, _when_ something else happened – he would need a way to defend himself. Retro glanced around the pile. There were so many weapons. How was he supposed to choose?

 _Simple._ Pick something simple. He tucked a knife in his pocket alongside the food. Then another. Then he chose a small dagger and a hatchet. Okay. That was something. It felt better to have at least _some_ sort of weapon.

But having a weapon wouldn't have saved Ti. He wouldn't have had a chance to use it. He hadn't been careful. He hadn't been thinking. He'd just walked through that door as if nothing could go wrong.

Retro shook his head. Even if he _had_ been a little more careful – if he'd gone through the door more slowly, or if he'd looked around first – that wouldn't have changed anything. Macauley would still have attacked him. He would still be dead, even if he'd played it safe.

Because in the Games, there _was_ no playing it safe. Period. No matter where he went now, he wouldn't be safe. He would never be safe again. Whether the Gamemakers had driven Macauley towards them or whether she had found them on her own, he wasn't sure, but the Gamemakers had allowed it to happen _because_ he and Ti had been trying to play it safe. They'd stayed in one spot too long. And now Ti was dead.

Ti was dead. David was dead. Somehow, _he_ was the one who was still alive. Retro took a deep breath as he stood up. Okay. _Okay_. He was okay. He was alive. He was scared, yes. Terrified. But he wasn't hurt. He could still keep moving.

He _had_ to keep moving.

But where?

Retro nearly laughed as the thought occurred to him, but he covered his mouth in time. He knew where he had to go. Exactly where they wouldn't expect him to. Retro gripped the dagger he'd chosen and headed back into the room he'd come from. Back towards the trap door. Maybe the best place to hide was right under their noses.

They would never look for him there.

* * *

 **Annemae Carty, 18  
** **District Two**

"There's no one there."

Mae glanced around the room again, just to be sure. There was no one at the cornucopia. The three of them had arrived expecting a fight, hoping to ambush the Career pack while they were still asleep. Instead, there was nothing. They hadn't even left anyone to guard the supplies.

"I guess that makes sense," Darian muttered as they ventured a little closer.

"What makes sense?" Margo asked.

"Not leaving anyone to guard the supplies," Darian reasoned. "I mean, look what happened the last time they did. They must not want to risk losing anyone else."

"Or maybe there just weren't enough of them left to leave anyone," Mae offered hopefully. "There's no telling how many of them might be left, especially since the faces are a bit … off."

A bit. The girl from Eight's face had appeared twice – once with Macauley's face and once with Elliot's. But Elliot's face had been right; that much, they knew for sure. Elliot was dead. Darian had killed him. He'd probably been planning to kill him all along.

Or at least, that was what he wanted the audience to think. Whether it was the truth or not, she wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe the audience didn't care _what_ the truth was, as long as it was interesting. That was why they'd headed back to the cornucopia to take on the other Careers – because the audience would expect it, now that there were three of them. They would expect them to _do_ something.

Apparently, though, the other Career pack had had the same idea. So while they were off _doing_ something, they'd left the supplies behind. And the audience would expect them to … what? Wait around for the pack to come back so they could ambush them? That could be hours from now. Or days. Or never. Mae glanced at the other two, hoping one of them might have an idea.

Margo opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get the words out, the anthem began echoing off the walls. Two faces again – just like every other time since the bloodbath. It was already the fourth time that tributes' faces had appeared. But that couldn't be right. It couldn't be the fourth day already.

Could it?

Maybe it didn't matter. There were three of them, after all, which meant they would be able to take turns resting, no matter when they decided to settle down. Did it really matter whether it was actually night? Or how many days had passed? It wasn't as if they were in a position where they had to ration their food or anything. Not when they suddenly had all the supplies they could ask for at their disposal.

The first face to appear belonged to the girl from Eleven. Then the girl from … Five? But that couldn't be right, could it? All of the other faces had at least been in the right order. Mae glanced at the others, who shrugged. All they knew was that two more tributes were dead; they had no real way of knowing whether it was the two whose faces they had seen or not.

"So Macauley wasn't dead when we saw her face before," Darian reasoned. "And they showed her face at the same time they showed the girl from Eight. What was that – two nights ago?"

"They aren't nights," Margo pointed out.

"Whatever," Darian agreed. "Two anthems ago, then. So those faces were wrong. And we know Elliot's was right. So were the ones from the bloodbath. Maybe that's the pattern. A group of faces that are right, a group that are wrong, and so on."

Mae nodded along. Maybe. But that still didn't help them figure out who _was_ dead. Aside from the girl from Eight, perhaps, because her face had appeared along with Elliot's. But that wasn't exactly useful information.

It didn't tell them who was still alive.

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

"I think that means the other girl is alive, too."

Ronan looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

Shanali shook her head. "Well, obviously, I'm not dead. So what if the faces aren't the people who have been killed? What if they're the ones who are doing the killing?"

Ronan thought that over for a moment. "But that kid we saw on the stairs the first…" He hesitated. The first what? The first day? The first night? Maybe. Before the first set of cannons, at least. "Anyway, he said that the Careers had killed his district partner – and her face was one of the ones we saw."

"Then maybe some of them are the tributes who have been killed," Kilian reasoned, "and some of them are the tributes who _did_ the killing." He nodded at Shanali. "Like you."

Ronan cringed. Yes, it was true, but did Kilian have to keep _reminding_ them of it? Then again, his words hadn't seemed to bother Shanali. Maybe _he_ was the only one who was uneasy with the reminder that Shanali had killed. That she'd been able to do what he hadn't.

He'd had the chance on the stairs, after all – however many days ago that had been. The boy from Three would have been a quick kill. An easy kill. But he'd hesitated, and the boy had gotten away. He'd _let_ the boy get away. Shanali…

No. No, it wasn't the same. If the boy had _attacked_ him, he would have defended himself, just like Shanali had. And if the girl who had attacked Shanali hadn't had a weapon – or hadn't appeared to – then she wouldn't have killed her.

Would she?

Ronan stretched his arms, holding back a yawn. The anthem had woken them, and he didn't really want to suggest going back to sleep now. Besides, he wasn't _really_ tired. It was just that sleep was easier than staying awake, trying to figure out what to do next, trying to work out how to keep himself and his friends alive.

Except right now … well, there didn't seem to be much to work out. They had food, supplies, weapons, and Shanali had even gotten a sponsor gift. The audience would probably be satisfied with their performance for a while, at least. So what were they supposed to _do_?

Ronan glanced around at the others. They seemed content to stay put for a while, now that they had found a good place. And maybe there was no reason to get moving yet. There was nothing they _needed_. Nowhere they needed to go. The audience seemed to be happy with them for now. Maybe the best thing to do was to stay put for a while and get some rest while they could.

Chances were, they would need it later.

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

Chances were, they would need all the rest they could get later.

Skyton yawned and rolled over a little on the griffin's back. For its part, the griffin – and, by extension, the Gamemakers – seemed content to let them rest for a while. Whatever its reason for bringing them into this room, it didn't seem particularly eager to move on anywhere else.

As far as Skyton was concerned, of course, that was perfectly fine. Maybe the audience would be content with the fact that they'd been flying around on a giant griffin. Maybe that would be enough – for a while, at least – to make them forget that neither of them had actually killed anyone.

It wouldn't last forever, of course. But it could buy them a little more time. Time to figure out what they were doing – and whether or not they were really willing to do it.

Whether they were really willing to _kill_. That was what the audience would want to know eventually. But not yet. They still had time. There had been Victors, after all, who hadn't killed until the last day or two of the Games. And one who hadn't killed at all.

One. But that had been a long time ago. And Glenn had been quite clear about the fact that the Gamemakers wouldn't allow something like that to happen again. He couldn't put off killing forever. But he could put it off a little longer. And then a little longer. And maybe…

Skyton closed his eyes, burying his face in the griffin's feathers. He wasn't fooling anyone. He didn't _want_ to kill anyone. He didn't want to be here at all. He wanted to fly back out of the window, out of the arena, beyond the Gamemakers' reach. He wanted to go home, but he didn't want to go home a killer. He just wanted things the way they had been before. Before the Games. Before the reaping. He wanted his normal life, with his normal family, his brother who teased him, his sisters for company.

Skyton took a deep breath. They were watching – all of them. What would they think if they knew what he was thinking right now? What would they say? He was surprised to realize he had no idea. Were they surprised he was still alive? Were they still holding out hope that he would be the one to come home? Were they proud that he'd made it this far without killing, or were they disappointed that he hadn't showed the nerve to do what had to be done?

Skyton ran his fingers along the griffin's feathers. How would _he_ feel, if it was one of them? If it were Clayton or Cameron in the arena, or Lucy when she was older? What would he say to them, if their positions were reversed? What would _he_ want?

That was easier. He would want them back home, wouldn't he? No matter what they had to do. No matter what they had to become. He would want his brother back. He would want his sister back. The rest of it wouldn't matter, as long as he got to see them again.

So maybe … maybe they were thinking the same thing. Probably, even. They probably didn't care how much blood he had on his hands at the end of the Games, as long as he came home to wash it off again.

Skyton's stomach churned at the thought of the image. It was one thing to _say_ that they would want him to do what had to be done. It was another thing to actually do it, when even the thought of blood made him sick. Klaudia had done what needed to be done – or at least, what she had _thought_ needed to be done – and he had run. He had left her when she had probably needed him the most.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Skyton opened his eyes, glancing down at Merrik, who was nestled beside the griffin, sleeping soundly. Or at least, he seemed to be sleeping soundly. Maybe he was just putting on a good show, trying to appear at ease next to the giant beast. They had decided against sleeping in shifts, figuring that the sight of the griffin would scare away anyone who even thought about attacking them. Besides, there appeared to be only one door in or out of the room, and the mutt was facing in that direction.

Skyton nodded a little. Eventually, they would have to leave through that door, and figure out their next move. The griffin could just fly back out the window, of course, but it didn't seem particularly likely to do so. It had brought them here for a reason. And it was only a matter of time before they learned what that reason was.

He just hoped he would be ready for it.

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

He hadn't been ready for this.

Consus drummed his fingers on his leg as the four of them sat silently in one corner of the room, eating a little of the food they had left. What they had would still last them quite a while, but would the Gamemakers really let them simply sit here long enough for the food to run out? Surely that wouldn't be very interesting for the audience to watch.

Then again, if the recent cannon was anything to go by, they were still getting their fill of entertainment from elsewhere. Maybe they would be content to leave the four of them alone for a while. But whether that made their situation better or worse, Consus wasn't really sure. Yes, it would give them a little more time to figure out what to do. But in the end, they were really only delaying the inevitable.

There was no way the Gamemakers were letting them all out alive.

No one wanted to say it. It was bad enough that he'd already said it once. They had immediately agreed that they weren't going to turn on each other, but it was only a matter of time before someone was brave enough – or perhaps frightened enough – to break that promise. Maybe they were the same thing, in the end. Maybe courage was just another kind of fear.

 _Stop it_. It was that sort of overthinking that would lead to one of them doing something rash. The Gamemakers were trying to play a mind game with them. The more he overthought it, the more he was playing right into their hands.

But what if playing into their hands was the thing that would keep them alive?

No. No, not _all_ of them. But it could keep _him_ alive. And two of the others, if they all played their cards right. As long as _someone_ died, maybe the Gamemakers would let the rest of them escape.

Maybe. That was all he had right now – a theory. That wasn't good enough. It wasn't a good enough reason to turn on his allies. His _friends_. Besides, even if one of the others _did_ make a move, what were the odds that they would go after him?

One out of three. Realistically, those were the odds. Whoever made a move would have three options. Any reason _not_ to pick him was also a reason that could make him a target. The others might see him as an asset because he'd been the one to fetch supplies from the cornucopia, but by the same token, that could also make him the biggest threat – one they might want to eliminate. He was the one who had blurted out that the Gamemakers probably expected them to kill each other. That meant he was either a valuable strategist who had worked out what the Gamemakers were thinking, or the first person the others would suspect.

And the same reasoning applied to the others. Any reason to spare them could also be a reason to take them out first. Wes had been the first to insist that they wouldn't kill each other, which could either mean that he didn't have the nerve or that he was trying to avoid suspicion. Charu was the only one who was still smiling as she looked around at the others, undaunted by their predicament, convinced they would figure something out. Unless that smile meant she had already decided to act and was just waiting for her moment. And Aleyn was injured – however slightly. That made her more of a liability, but it also meant that she might be less likely to attack someone else. Or maybe _more_ likely, if she figured out that she would probably be an easy target for anyone else.

Consus took a deep breath, trying to ignore the weight of the extra knives in his pocket. The weapons he hadn't told anyone he had taken from the cornucopia. He didn't dare tell them now and hand them out; it would look like he had been hiding something. Sure, he _had_ been hiding something, but that wasn't the point. He'd never meant to kill any of _them_ with the weapons. He'd just wanted a little extra protection.

But now he might not have a choice. Eventually, someone would have to make a move. And if he wanted to be certain of staying alive, it would have to be him.

It was just a matter of time.

* * *

 **Barlen Rimmonn, 13  
** **District Nine**

It was just a matter of time.

Barlen shuddered as he caught sight of his hands again. He'd tried to wipe off some of the blood, but he couldn't seem to get rid of all of it. Besides, it had stained his clothes, as well. Too much blood to be his own. His shoulder hurt a little, but not enough to bleed this much. No, it was someone else's blood.

Someone he had killed.

And it was only a matter of time before he would have to do it again.

"Who were they?" he asked quietly, glancing up at the girl beside him as they walked. Marissa? Melissa? The writing on his arm was a little smudged. Mariska. Yes, that was it. From the look on her face, it wasn't the first time he'd asked the question. He could remember some of what had happened. He remembered being afraid. He remembered stabbing … someone. But their face, their name, anything else … It was all gone.

"Maybe you should write it down this time," offered a second voice. Vashti. He remembered that. "That way, you can stop asking."

Barlen hesitated. He'd thought of that – or, at least, he was pretty sure it was him who had thought of it. But there was something about the thought of writing it down that made it … real. It was almost as if that would make it more than a faint, fleeting memory. More than a blurry answer to a hasty question. He didn't _want_ to remember.

Except…

Except if he didn't want to remember, then why did he keep asking for details? Maybe there was a part of him that _did_ want to remember. That wanted to be certain that he _had_ killed, and that he would be able to do it again, when the time came.

 _You're in the Hunger Games._ The words were written on his arm, plain as day. He couldn't forget that. And being in the Hunger Games meant killing. Maybe it would be easier to kill again if he could remember that he had already done it once. "Okay," he agreed. "I'll write it down this time."

Vashti nodded, satisfied. "Good. Her name was Klaudia. She was from District Eight."

District Eight. That sounded familiar, but he wasn't entirely sure why. He glanced up at Mariska, who nodded. "She was trying to kill you. You defended yourself. You won." She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You did what you had to do."

Barlen turned his pen over in his hands, trying to figure out what to write. At last, he wrote two words. _You've killed._ Then, in smaller letters, _Klaudia._

They kept walking in silence for a while. Barlen wasn't sure exactly where they were going, but he didn't ask. What was the point? He would forget soon enough, anyway. It was enough that his friends – his _allies_ – seemed to know where they were going. Barlen stretched his arms a little, and the words caught his eye.

 _You've killed._

Something caught in his throat – a quiet sound. At first, he thought it was a sob. It took him a moment to realize it was a laugh. Well, not a laugh entirely, but at least a chuckle. Mariska looked down at him, startled. "Are you all right?"

Before he could answer, the walls to the path they had been following fell away, and they stepped into a large, open room. Candles lit the walls, and two other paths led out. In the center of the room was a large, gaping hole in the ground. Immediately, Barlen hurried towards it, curiosity bubbling up inside him. He peered over the edge, but he couldn't see anything. It was too dark.

Mariska took one of the candles from the wall and joined him, careful not to get too close to the edge of the pit. She lowered the candle into the hole, but that only lit the sides a few feet down. The hole kept going. How deep? Barlen quickly snatched another candle from the wall and, before anyone could stop him, dropped it into the hole.

The light plummeted down. Down. Deeper and deeper. It wasn't long before they couldn't see it anymore. Then there was a sound. A splash. There was water at the bottom. But how deep? There was no way to tell.

"Barlen?" Mariska's voice again, and she seemed … concerned.

Barlen looked up. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Why?" He felt his shoulder, which seemed to be fine. "What's wrong?"

"You're smiling."

Barlen hesitated. What was wrong with that? He shrugged. "I'm fine."

But Mariska didn't seem convinced.

* * *

 **Camden Sinclair  
** **District Five Mentor**

It seemed like Retro had made the right move.

Camden drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. Macauley and the other Careers were making their way through the maze below the main level of the castle. Retro was staying a safe distance behind them, careful not to get too close or make too much noise. The audience would love it. He was doing something brave, something dangerous – and also something that wouldn't require him to fight, if he played his cards right. He could keep the audience's attention and avoid having to kill for a while at the same time.

If nothing else, the audience would probably be happy that he was finally on the move. In fact, he was one of the few tributes who _was_ moving at the moment. Vashti, Mariska, and Barlen had settled down near the pit to rest. Directly above them at the cornucopia, the trio from Two had decided to stay put for a while. Etora was still lying in wait in the large cauldron nearby, while Ronan and the pair from Eleven were eating a meal in the next room. In the room next to them, Merrik was beginning to stir a little, but Skyton and the griffin were still sleeping soundly.

And the large group trapped in the dungeon were waiting in uneasy silence for something – _anything_ – to happen. Waiting for someone to make the first move, to admit to what had to be done. They wouldn't leave the room without blood being spilled; that much was clear to anyone watching. But who would be the first to act?

Camden shook her head. It didn't matter much, perhaps, as far as her own tribute was concerned. All of District Five's remaining tributes, in fact, were in the lower level of the arena. Whether that was good or bad, she wasn't entirely sure. She'd gotten accustomed, during the last few years, to having Five's tributes not only in the same area, but in the same _alliance._ Maybe it was only natural that they had gravitated towards the same area.

"I was just telling Balthasar earlier that we shouldn't put all of _our_ eggs in the same basket," Tosh remarked, taking a seat next to Camden. "Looks like you're having something of the same problem."

Camden chuckled. "Not the _same_ basket, maybe, but at least baskets very close to each other." She shrugged. "Then again, that's what the Career pack does most years, isn't it?"

"Maybe," Tosh agreed. "But I'd say that's a somewhat stronger basket, wouldn't you?"

"My twelve-year-old's doing just fine, thank you," Camden pointed out. "And so is yours." Part of her was surprised that Retro was still alive, but until a few hours ago, it had only been a matter of dumb luck. It had been luck that he and Ti had been close to each other during the bloodbath, while David had been on the other side of the circle. It had been luck that he had been the one packing up supplies and Ti had been the one to walk through the door. But now…

Now, it seemed, he was finally starting to put it together. It had been his idea to go back to the cornucopia. It had been his quick thinking that had thrown Macauley off his scent and sent her down the trap door instead. And he had been the one to decide to trail the Career pack, a move that ensured he would know where the strongest alliance in the arena was.

Or at least, one of the strongest. But the other Career pack was still at the cornucopia. If Retro hadn't left when he had…

But he had. He was still alive. Maybe part of it was due to luck, but that was part of the Games. No matter how strong or skilled or well-prepared a tribute was, there were some things that simply came down to pure dumb luck. That was what kept the Games unpredictable, and that unpredictability was what kept the audience coming back year after year. There was no fun, no excitement, in watching a game when they were certain who was going to win. Even those who seemed certain that a Career would win could rarely say for certain _which_ Career.

Camden leaned back in her chair. Retro wasn't a Career. He wasn't even pretending to act like one. But he was finally doing _enough_ to keep the audience interested. And if he could keep them interested for a while – if he could stay alive a bit longer – then maybe he would stumble across an opportunity he hadn't been expecting.

Maybe. It was still a long shot. There were still twenty-one tributes left, after all, and now he had no allies. But maybe that would play in his favor. The audience wouldn't be expecting him to attack – not by himself. Not yet. And certainly not the Careers. He would be able to bide his time for a little while longer.

"Camden?" Harakuise's voice caught her off-guard. He was standing behind her chair, watching her and Tosh with a curious smile. "Do you have a moment?"

Camden raised an eyebrow. "Just me, or both of us."

Harakuise smirked. "Just you for now. Eldred would like a word with us. But this might eventually concern you, Tosh, if my guess is right."

No. No, it wasn't a guess. It was more than that. There was something in his eyes – something that was almost … almost excitement. Anticipation, certainly. Eagerness. But there was no use pressing him for more information – not where the Capitol was involved. And Eldred … Vice President Brand … What did he want with them? Camden couldn't help a smile as she rose from her chair.

This was going to be good.

* * *

" _Round about the cauldron go; in the poison'd entrails throw."_


	40. No Mercy Left

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final eight" poll if you haven't yet. A new one will be up along with the next chapter.

I'll try to get an X-Men update up soon; this one just seems to be lending itself more to the "just sit down and write _something_ " pace of Camp Nano, since I already have a good bit of it planned out.

* * *

 **Day Three  
** **No Mercy Left**

* * *

 **Hazel Birnam  
** **District Seven Mentor**

"He's planning something."

Hazel barely looked up from her drink to see who Mags was talking about. "Harakuise? He's always planning something." That was certainly true. So many of the other Victors always seemed to be up to something. How they had the energy for it during the Games, she would never understand. It was all she could do to try to keep her own tributes alive; plotting and scheming was well out of the question.

Then again, there wasn't much left for her to do this year. Both Thomas and Nephelle were gone, and their only ally, as well. Twenty-one tributes were still alive, but none of them were from District Seven. Her part was done.

Sometimes she wondered why she bothered staying after her own tributes were dead. But it wasn't as if leaving would spare her from the rest of the Games. It would be everywhere in the Capitol, everywhere in the districts. There were Victors who tried to hide in their mansions during the Games, who tried to block it out with drink or morphling, but there was no escaping the Games.

Curiosity drew them back out again. It was sick. It was probably wrong. But she couldn't help wondering who was going to make it out of that horrid arena. So she was watching the screen as closely as any of the others, as if by simply paying attention and willing events to unfold one way or another, she could change the direction of the Games.

She couldn't, of course. None of them could. Not even the sponsors or the Gamemakers – not completely. No matter how much they tried to steer the direction the Games might be going, there were always things that they couldn't control. They could try, but they couldn't force tributes to behave one way or another. Not entirely. They could nudge. They could prod. And they could punish those who wouldn't go along with their 'suggestions,' but they couldn't micromanage each tribute's actions.

Most of the Gamemakers over the years, of course, had known better than to try. Those who hadn't … well, they hadn't lasted long. The unpredictability of the Games was part of what the Capitol enjoyed so much. And without choice, there could be no unpredictability.

Hazel leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. If she _was_ going to be stuck somewhere watching the Games, this was probably a better place than any other. Because the other Victors understood that. The chaos of it all. They could try to guide their tributes, to provide advice and suggestions, but once they were in the arena, most of it was out of their hands. Even if they were lucky enough to be able to send a sponsor gift to their tributes, they couldn't control what the tribute _did_ with it.

 _If_ they were lucky enough to get sponsors in the first place. No one had wanted to sponsor Nephelle – not after she'd lost both of her allies in the bloodbath. She hadn't given the audience any reason _not_ to like her, of course, but she hadn't given them much of a reason to support her either. Most tributes hadn't, of course, after the first day or so. A lot of sponsors liked to wait a bit longer than that, let the Games narrow down their options a bit first.

And the options were certainly getting narrower. It was only the third day of the Games – and barely halfway through the day, at that. Fourteen tributes were already dead. _Fourteen_ children who wouldn't be going home this year. More than a third of the tributes were gone.

Hazel shook her head. Part of her was grateful that her tribute's deaths had come relatively quickly. It made little difference in the end, after all. Tributes who lasted almost the whole Games only to die in the finale were just as dead as those who died early on. It was only a matter of how much fear, how much pain and hunger and despair they had to go through before their deaths. In that sense, maybe her own tributes had gotten off easy.

That hadn't made it any easier to watch.

Hazel took another sip of her drink. Mags was already making her way over to where Harakuise was sitting in a corner, talking in hushed whispers with Camden and Eldred. Mags was certainly right about them planning something. The difference was that Hazel knew better than to ask what. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with District Seven.

Maybe that was District Four's problem, in the end. They always wanted to be a part of whatever was going on. Career training? District Four had been one of the later Career districts to take up the idea. Rebellion during the 41st Games? Why not? And now instead of accepting their new place and moving on, some of them were trying to get their Career system back up and running. But they just hadn't had the same amount of interest as before. Maybe sending extra tributes to every Games since the rebellion had taken its toll. Maybe risking their lives in the Games simply didn't seem as appealing now. Still, there seemed to be enough interest to keep the Career system from dying out completely.

Hazel held back a chuckle as Harakuise and the others acknowledged Mags. Mags had never been much of a proponent of Career training, but she hadn't openly supported the rebellion, either. Certainly not as much as Misha had. Still, as much as she might not want to admit it, she was just as eager as the rest of them to be where the action was, to have a say in how events unfolded. As much as she might try to deny it, she wanted to be in control.

They all did, to some extent. Hazel smiled a little. Even her. But her idea of control was different. She had a more realistic idea of what she would be able to accomplish. As long as she could keep herself from sinking into despair like some of the other Victors, as long as she could help Casper do the same, and as long as the pair of them could likewise help any other Victors they might come home with … that would be good enough for her.

She wasn't interested in trying to change the rest of Panem one way or the other. If more than four decades of mentoring tributes had taught her anything, it was how futile it was to try to control anyone else. She could help. She could guide. But, ultimately, others' actions were their own. She knew when to step in and try to help, and when to keep her nose out of things. Unlike some of the other Victors, she knew her place.

And she knew when to leave well enough alone.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15  
** **District Four**

How long would the Gamemakers really leave them alone?

Aleyn twirled her hair as the four of them sat in silence. It was the silence that was disturbing, really. The others had stopped talking about what might happen, what the Gamemakers might do. None of them wanted to say it, because saying it would make it more real. But it was only a matter of time before something happened.

Something always did.

Ten years ago, the last three tributes in the Games had been in a similar situation. They'd made it to the end – three younger tributes who had been allies from the start. They had been the only ones left, all of them reluctant to turn on the others. But eventually, one of them had. They always did. Only one person could win.

The four of them, of course, were far from that point. There were still plenty of other tributes left to keep the audience interested. But how long would the Gamemakers really let them stay here? How long could they keep this up?

And how long would it be before one of the others snapped?

They had all promised not to hurt each other. They had all agreed. But when push came to shove, they all knew what promises were worth in the Games. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Aleyn took a deep breath, trying to push the thought from her head. These were her allies. Her friends. She wanted to trust them. She _wanted_ to believe that none of them would hurt her, but…

But, but, but…

It was that thought, that word, that was still there, lingering at the back of her mind. The other three were probably having the same debate in their own heads, trying to work out how long it would be before one of the others decided to make a move. Aleyn held back a yawn. They were all tired, but none of them had suggested getting any rest. Because that would mean letting someone keep watch.

Someone. Someone they couldn't necessarily trust. Someone who might turn on them, and then…

And then what? Did they think that as soon as blood was spilled, the doors would simply swing open? Maybe. Maybe they would. But 'maybe' wasn't a good enough reason to turn on her friends – even ones that she had only known for a few days. A week, maybe. She wasn't really sure how long it had been since the Games had started. There had been four sets of faces on the wall, but they hadn't seemed to correspond to nighttime. Now that they were in a room with a window, she could tell that there was plenty of daylight out, and it had been only an hour or so at the most since the last time the anthem had played.

"Aleyn?" Charu's voice caught her by surprise. How long had she been calling her name?

Aleyn looked up, startled. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Charu smiled. "So was I. I was thinking that maybe if we could put together enough strips of fabric, maybe we could make a rope long enough to reach the window. If we could hook something onto the end, we might be able to latch it onto something up there and—"

Consus raised an eyebrow. "And what? Even if we can get the window open, what are we supposed to do then? Jump to the ground?"

Charu blushed. "I hadn't really thought that far yet, but at least it would get us out of this room. What do you think?"

For a moment, she thought Consus might object, that he might point out how unlikely it was that a rope made of cloth would be able to support their weight for that long, even if they could manage to hook it around something by the window. How hard it would be to break through the window once they were up there, unless there was some way to open the window. Instead, he simply nodded. "Why not? I haven't heard any better ideas."

That was certainly true. And maybe as long as they appeared to have _some_ sort of plan, _some_ idea of what to do next, the Gamemakers would leave them alone. As long as they appeared to be making progress, maybe that was good enough.

But 'maybe' wouldn't last forever.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

He wished they could just stay there forever.

Merrik snuggled close against the griffin, his eyes still tightly closed. As long as he appeared to be sleeping, maybe Skyton wouldn't wake him. He'd heard the older boy stirring a little while ago, but for the moment, he seemed content to let Merrik sleep. And Merrik certainly had no problem with that. Because as soon as they were both awake, the audience would expect them to _do_ something.

Something. That was a nice way of putting it. It was fairly obvious what they'd been brought here to do. There was only one way out of the room. There were probably tributes in the next room, waiting. Maybe sleeping, like they were. The Gamemakers were giving them the opportunity to make a move.

All they had to do was play along.

"Merrik?" Skyton's voice was little more than a whisper. Maybe he was trying to figure out whether Merrik was actually asleep. Maybe he just wanted to make sure that whoever was in the next room wouldn't hear them. Either way, the griffin stirred a little, letting out a low rumbling sound that was almost a purr.

Merrik rolled over a little. There was no more pretending. "Time to get moving?" he asked in a low voice.

Skyton's face was pale as he nodded. He was scared, too. But there was no way around it – not now that one of them had suggested moving on. And there was only one direction to go.

The griffin stood up to its full height, shaking out its feathers, fluffing itself up almost like a bird. Merrik almost laughed. He'd seen pigeons do that around larger animals, to try to make themselves seem more intimidating. But a griffin was already the largest thing around by far. What did it have to be intimidated by?

Certainly not whoever was in the next room – assuming there was, in fact, someone there. Whoever it was certainly wouldn't be expecting a griffin to come bursting through the door. It didn't really seem fair to attack without any warning at all.

Merrik clenched his fists as he stood up, stretching a little. The Games weren't fair at all. Lena had tried to make things fair during the private sessions, and everything had gone wrong from there. The Gamemakers were giving him a chance to prove that he was willing to play along. It was a chance he couldn't afford to turn down.

Skyton offered him a hand up onto the griffin's back, and Merrik climbed up alongside his ally. "Ready?" Skyton asked, his voice shaky.

No. No, he wasn't ready. He would never be ready. But they didn't have a choice. Whatever the Gamemakres had planned for them if they didn't play along now, it wouldn't be good. The griffin might seem like a large, friendly bird-like creature now, but it could just as easily turn on them if the Gamemakers lost patience. Merrik nodded shakily. "Ready."

Skyton stroked the griffin's neck. "All right, then. Let's go, boy."

The griffin nodded its head contentedly and turned to face the door. Merrik braced himself as the griffin backed up a little, getting a running start. He hadn't even thought about the fact that the creature probably wouldn't _fit_ through the door. "Hold on tight," he whispered to Skyton, who nodded his agreement as the mutt barreled towards the door.

Still, the force of the impact almost knocked him from the griffin's back.

* * *

 **Kilian Romane, 17  
** **District Eleven**

The force of the impact almost knocked him off his feet.

Kilian couldn't help a shout as both the door and the wall around it shattered, sending pieces of wood and stone alike flying in every direction. He saw something strike Ronan, who crumpled to the ground. He was about to race over to help him up when he saw the mutt.

It was huge, with four thick, strong legs like a lion, but feathers around its neck and head like some sort of bird. "Run!" Shanali shouted, and Kilian barely thought twice. He still had his axe, and Shanali had a dagger, but neither of those would do them much good against the mutt. And they wouldn't be able to help Ronan if they were dead. The mutt let out a shriek almost like an eagle's, and he and Shanali raced out of the room.

The next room was empty, except for a large cauldron in the center. For a moment, Kilian thought maybe they could hide inside it, but the mutt was too close on their heels. It would be able to tell where they had gone. Hell, it wasn't as if the Gamemakers wouldn't be able to see where they were hiding anyway. If they wanted the mutts to come after them, they would.

But why? What had they done to upset the Gamemakers? Just earlier the audience had sent Shanali a sponsor gift. Why would a mutt come after them _now_? It didn't make any sense.

Then he saw the boys on the mutt's back.

Kilian gasped for breath as he and Shanali ran. So this had nothing to do with the Gamemakers after all. It was a pair of other _tributes_ who were after them. That made things a bit different. They wouldn't be able to fool the Gamemakers, but maybe they could fool the other tributes.

Maybe.

Suddenly, something struck his neck as he ran. A prick of some sort. Kilian's hand flew to his neck, and his fingers brushed against something. A dart. But where had that come from? Surely if the boys on the mutt's back had darts, they would have used them earlier.

He didn't have time to figure it out. A wave of dizziness struck him, and he took a few more stumbling steps before his legs gave way beneath him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Shanali was still running. _Good_. And there hadn't been any cannons, which meant Ronan was still alive. _Even better._

Maybe he was the only unlucky one.

Kilian gasped, trying to catch his breath as the mutt came to a stop beside him. For a moment, the boys on its back waited, maybe hoping that the mutt would finish him off for them. But it simply lowered its head, pressing its beak against his chest, holding him down.

Not that it would have made a difference. Whatever poison had been on the dart must have been quick. Everything was getting darker. Blurrier. It wouldn't be long now, no matter what the boys decided to do. One of the boys pried the axe from his hand. The blade pressed against his neck, but the boy hesitated. The other one laid his hands on top of the first. "Together?" he asked quietly, and the other boy nodded slightly.

"Together."

* * *

 **Skyton Tate, 16  
** **District Ten**

"Together."

Skyton gripped the handle of the axe, Merrik's hands on top of his as the two of them pressed down. Blood spurted from the older boy's neck. The cannon was almost immediate. Skyton fought back a wave of nausea as the griffin gently nuzzled him.

It was sick. It was wrong. Skyton clenched his teeth, trying not to vomit. After a moment, it was useless, and he turned in time to avoid making a mess all over the body in front of him. The boy of the boy they had killed.

They had killed.

The words almost wouldn't form in his mind. He had _killed_ someone. Exactly what he'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to do. He _had_ been able to. It had almost been _easy._

That scared him even more.

Of course, it hadn't been much of a fight. The boy had simply collapsed. Maybe he'd already been injured and simply hadn't been able to keep running. The girl had gotten away, but the griffin didn't seem particularly interested in going after her at the moment. It seemed content with the fact that they'd done what they had come here to do.

"Maybe we should head back to the other room," Skyton offered after a moment. He didn't want to look at the dead body any more than he had to.

"No." Merrik's answer was surprisingly firm. "No, we shouldn't go back there."

"Why?" Skyton asked before he could think it through.

Merrik hesitated. "If we do, who's going to come that way now? We made quite a mess when we crashed through both those doors. Anyone who's heading that way is going to know something's wrong. We should keep going the other way." He pointed at the door the girl had run through. "Besides, that doorway looks a little bigger. Pigeon might fit without having to smash through."

Skyton nodded. That made as much sense as anything else. But something seemed a little odd. "Pigeon?"

Merrik nodded. "Because of the way he fluffs out his feathers. Like a pigeon."

Skyton raised an eyebrow. "Pretty much all birds do that, you know."

"Really?"

"Really."

Merrik shrugged. "Not a lot of birds in District Three." He chuckled a little. Slowly, the chuckle turned into a nervous giggle. "Just listen to us."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, look at what we just did, and we're sitting here talking about _birds_." More giggles. "As if that matters. As if _any_ of it matters."

Skyton couldn't help a chuckle himself. It _was_ a bit funny. Slowly, he got to his feet and climbed back on the griffin, helping Merrik up alongside him. He stroked the griffin's neck. "All right then, Pigeon." He took a deep breath.

"Let's go."

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

Now was definitely the right time to go.

Etora ducked lower inside the cauldron as the mutt – apparently 'Pigeon' – passed by the cauldron and headed for the door on the opposite side of the room. Sure enough, it managed to squeeze through the door without breaking anything, quite unlike when the tributes and the mutt had rushed into the room. In all the commotion, no one had taken any notice of her. Not even the boy she had shot in the neck with the dart.

She wouldn't get credit for the kill, probably. The two boys had been the ones to actually kill him. But it had definitely been the right move. If she hadn't shot the boy, he might have been able to outrun the others, and then the mutt might have come after her. It had been a risk, certainly; emerging from the cauldron long enough to blow one of the darts at the boy could have drawn attention. But if they'd noticed her, she could have slipped down the trap door.

She'd avoided doing so while they were in the room because of the noise it might have caused. But now that they were gone, she slid the trap door open as quietly as she could and headed down the stairs. The stairway was dark, but there was a faint light coming from somewhere near the bottom. Candles, probably.

Maybe her eyes were adjusting to having to see in rather faint light, because the candles seemed almost blinding when she finally reached the bottom. Etora glanced around. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd been expecting, but this wasn't quite it. The walls around her were bare, a hallway of sorts – or maybe a maze. Paths led off in a few different directions.

Etora took a good look around, getting her bearings. The stairs had been so winding, she wasn't sure which way anything was. Heading towards the center – in the direction of the cornucopia – would probably be the best idea. But she had no real way of figuring out which way that was. She'd gotten a bit too turned around on the stairs.

Maybe it didn't matter, really. If the Gamemakers wanted her to go in a particular direction, they would find a way to let her know. If the audience wanted to steer her one way or another, they could always send her something. If not, she would just have to assume that one direction was as good as another. Any other tributes who were down here, after all, were probably just as disoriented as she was. Just as likely to go one way as another.

Etora took a few tentative steps in one direction. Nothing happened. Nothing to confirm her choice, but also nothing to indicate she should have gone a different way. Etora glanced around once more, then kept going. There was nothing else to do, really.

Nothing but hope that she had made the right choice.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

She hadn't had much of a choice.

Shanali gasped for breath as she made her way up the stairwell. She'd noticed it immediately upon entering the room, and it had seemed like the best option at the time. As far as she had known, the mutt and the tributes on its back weren't far behind her. She hadn't heard them pass through the room, but maybe they were being quiet.

Right. Like a creature like that was capable of being quiet.

Only once she'd entered the stairwell had she realized that Kilian wasn't behind her. By then, it was too late. Too late to go back. Too late to do anything but hope that the cannon she'd heard soon after hadn't been his. Maybe he'd split off and gone a different direction, knowing the mutt wouldn't be able to chase them in two different directions at once. Maybe he'd tried to double back to help Ronan.

Ronan. There had only been one cannon, which meant that they weren't _both_ dead. Either he was still alive, or Kilian was. Or both. But 'both' didn't seem particularly likely. The mutt wasn't about to just give up, after all – not once it found them. The Gamemakers weren't going to let them all walk away unharmed.

Shanali slammed her dagger against the wall of the stairwell as she climbed. It wasn't _fair_. She'd done everything they'd wanted. She'd killed, and she hadn't made a fuss about it. They had even sent her a sponsor gift. So why would the Gamemakers send a mutt after them now?

What made it even worse was that she recognized one of the boys riding on the mutt's back. The boy from Three – the one they'd seen in the other stairwell near the start of the Games. Ronan had spared his life, and _this_ was how he'd been repaid. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He could be dead, all because he'd decided to show the boy mercy.

Shanali clenched her fists. That wouldn't happen again. She wouldn't let it. If she saw the boy again, he was as good as dead – and so was anyone else. Because there was no telling when an act of kindness might come back to bite her. There was no point in sparing anyone, when they would all have to die anyway. Anyone who was left alive by this point wouldn't hesitate to kill her if they had the chance. So she would have to do the same.

If she got the chance. She wasn't particularly likely to find anyone up here. Shanali slowed a little as she neared what appeared to be the top of the tower. If nothing else, at least she could figure out what time of day it was. It wasn't much, but it was something. And right now, something – _anything_ – was better than nothing.

Carefully, Shanali slid the door open and stepped out into the fresh air. There didn't seem to be anyone at the top of the tower, which was probably for the best. The sun was sinking below the horizon in the distance. Or maybe it was rising. She could always wait and see. It wasn't as if she was in much of a hurry to go back down those stairs.

The mutt would probably be gone, of course, along with the tributes who were riding it. But where was she supposed to go? Back to Ronan? That was one possibility. But if he was still alive, he was probably on the move, as well, knowing that the mutt could very easily come back to finish him off. If he had decided to head somewhere else, there was no telling where he might go.

The same was true if Kilian was still alive. If he'd headed in a different direction to try to confuse the mutt, she had no way of knowing where he had ended up. He was probably thinking the same thing about her, if he was still alive. And Ronan would have no way of knowing where either of them was.

Shanali took a seat, leaning back against one of the tower's pillars. She could wait a little longer. Long enough to be sure that the mutt would be gone. Long enough to figure out whether it was dawn or dusk. Long enough to figure out what to do next.

But not _too_ long. Waiting too long in one place was what had gotten them in trouble in the first place. They'd all been well rested long before the mutt had come crashing through the door. They'd had no reason to stay in the room that long, but none of them had wanted to seem too eager to get moving.

Now they would know better.

* * *

 **Ronan Callaway, 18  
** **District Four**

Now he would know better.

Ronan groaned as he rolled over, his head aching where something had struck him. A piece of the door, perhaps, or maybe a piece of the wall. He remembered the wall bursting into pieces behind him. He'd caught a glimpse of the mutt as it charged through the wall, and before he'd blacked out, he'd seen the boys who were riding on its back.

The boy from Three – he was the one who had caught Ronan's eye. He was pretty sure the boy had seen him, too. Even if he hadn't, it wouldn't take the boy long to realize that he was chasing the very tributes who had spared his life before. How long ago had that been? Not long enough for him to forget, surely.

No. No, the boy hadn't forgotten. He just hadn't _cared_. He'd chased after Kilian and Shanali without hesitation. Without mercy.

Without any hint of the mercy Ronan had shown _him_.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

Not that he was likely to get the chance anytime soon. There didn't seem to be anyone around, and that was probably for the best. His head ached, and he felt dizzy as soon as he started to sit up a little. Whatever had hit him, it had been _hard_. There was blood on his hand when he pulled it away from his head. He didn't dare glance around to see how much blood he had lost. He probably didn't want to know the answer.

Ronan closed his eyes. Resting a little longer probably wouldn't hurt. If the mutt was going to come back and kill him, wouldn't it have done so by now? Maybe the boys figured he was already as good as dead. Maybe they thought he _was_ dead. How long had he been out? He had no way of knowing if there had been any cannons, or whether any of his allies were still alive.

But there was nothing he could do about that – not yet. Not until he felt a bit stronger. For now, it was all he could do to sit up a little and get a look around. Ronan clenched his teeth, fighting the pain as he forced himself into a seated position, leaning back against what was left of the wall behind him. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The other wall had taken a beating, as well – probably when the mutt had chased after Shanali and Kilian. There was plenty of the wall left standing – just as there was of the wall behind him – but there was a large, mutt-sized hole where the door had once been. But there was no sign that the mutt had done anything but run in one door and out the other. If it had caught up with Shanali and Kilian, it hadn't done so in this room.

But in the next one…

No. No, he didn't have the strength for that yet. Or maybe he simply didn't want to know the answer to his question. As long as he didn't know for sure, he could keep hoping that his friends were still alive. And if they _were_ still alive and decided to come back for him, then this was where they would expect to find him. If he headed off in a different direction, they would have no way of finding him again.

But by the same token, if the boys with the mutts decided to come back and finish him off, they would know exactly where to find him. His mace still lay by his side, but even reaching for it sent a wave of pain coursing through his body. Everything ached. There didn't seem to be much blood, but everywhere felt bruised. He wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight in this condition.

So the best thing he could do for now was stay away from fights, which – for the moment, at least – meant staying put and waiting for the others to come back. _If_ they were coming back.

If not, it probably wouldn't be long before he found out. If the others were right about which faces appeared during the anthem, the next set of faces would belong to the tributes who had died.

Unless he'd already missed them. Would the anthem have woken him? Ronan took a deep breath, stretching his arms, trying to fight off the dizziness that struck again every time he started to move. Maybe it wouldn't have. He couldn't be sure of anything now – not even how many tributes were dead.

Or how many were left.

* * *

 **Margo Devereaux, 18  
** **District Two**

There were still twenty of them left.

Margo stuffed a little more food into her backpack as the three of them prepared to leave the cornucopia. Only a little while ago, there had been a crashing sound coming from one direction. Something big enough to make that sort of noise was probably a mutt, rather than a tribute, so there was no point in going after it. It wasn't after them, so why draw its attention?

Instead, it was probably a good idea to get as far away from it as they could. "Any idea what's in the other direction?" she asked Darian.

Darian shrugged. "Not really. The others went that way when they went hunting, but Elliot and I left before they came back, so your guess is as good as mine."

Margo nodded. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Even if he'd happened to remember which tributes had gone that way at the start of the Games, they could very well be on the other side of the arena by now. "I guess we'll just have to find out for ourselves," she reasoned, resisting the urge to rub her leg as she shifted the weight of her backpack. They'd bandaged her leg as well as they could, but that was no substitute for rest.

But rest wasn't something she was likely to get – not for a long while, at least. There were still twenty tributes left. The Games were a long way from being over. For now, she would just have to deal with the pain. Unless there was something in the pile that could be useful…

Margo's gaze strayed to what appeared to be a pile of medicine. "Yeah, I thought about that, too," Mae agreed before Margo could even say anything. "But nothing's labeled. No way to know what might help with the pain and what might kill you."

Margo took a closer look. Mae was right. There were several small bottles of … something. But they had no way of knowing _what_. They might smell different, but she wasn't about to risk her life on the off-chance that she remembered what pain medication might smell like. That certainly wasn't a station she'd visited during training. If they even _had_ a station for that. She didn't remember seeing one.

Darian made his way towards the pile of medicine, shrugging. "Might as well take some, then. You never know when it may come in handy. And who knows? We might have the chance to test it out and see what it is."

Margo forced a smirk onto her face in agreement. She knew exactly what he was suggesting – and so would the audience. If they came across another tribute, they could use them as a lab rat to figure out what was in the bottles. It was exactly the sort of thing the audience would enjoy, and Darian knew it. Margo clapped him on the back. "Good thinking," she agreed, tucking a few of the bottles into her bag.

Darian stuffed a few of the others into his own sack, then turned to Mae, who was watching them curiously. Margo gave her what she hoped was a sly smile. _Come on. Play along._ Finally, Mae took the hint and scooped up a few of the bottles herself. But she said nothing as they headed off in the opposite direction from where they'd heard the mutt.

Margo couldn't help a smile – a real one this time – as they entered the room. It was full of clothes, much too big for a human. Off to one side was a giant wardrobe. "Let's check in there first," she suggested. "If anyone's hiding, it's probably in there." That was where _she_ would have hidden, if she'd heard someone coming.

Apparently, though, either no one had been in the room, or they hadn't had the same idea, because the wardrobe was empty. Well, not _empty_ , but there weren't any tributes inside, which amounted to pretty much the same thing. "Maybe we could…" Darian let the sentence hang in the air. They could do exactly what she had suggested: hide in the wardrobe for a while and get some real rest.

It sounded like a good idea; it really did. But Margo resisted the impulse to agree. "We should probably keep moving," she suggested, and that was the end of it. If the person who was injured said they should keep moving, anyone who said otherwise would look like a weakling. Which was exactly what the audience would have thought of them if they'd decided to hole up inside the wardrobe for a while. They were supposed to be Careers, after all.

And Careers didn't hide.

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17  
** **District One**

Careers were supposed to know better than this.

Justus sighed as he realized what was up ahead. It looked exactly like the same corner they'd passed about an hour ago. He couldn't be sure – not _completely_ sure – because all of the walls were starting to look the same. There were no windows. Nothing to give them any sense of direction. But he was pretty sure at this point that they were going in circles.

"I think we've been here before," Macauley said at last. Genevieve glared, and Mae said nothing, but Justus nodded along. She was just voicing what they'd all been thinking for a while.

"A hint sure would be nice right about now," Genevieve muttered, as if simply asking for a sponsor gift was going to make one appear. Maybe it wasn't the worst idea; they'd already gotten one gift without even having to ask. But were the sponsors really going to send them something else so soon? Probably not – especially when none of them had done anything to earn it since then.

Except Macauley, perhaps. She had three kills, and had been well on her way to getting a fourth when she'd happened to run into them, instead. Justus shook his head. He hadn't killed since the bloodbath, and neither had Mae or Genevieve. Macauley had insisted they would have time to catch up, but it was time that they were quickly running out of. There were only twenty tributes left, and the four of them were stuck going around in circles in these tunnels.

Suddenly, Mae spoke up. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Genevieve asked impatiently.

"Shhhh," Macauley whispered. "I think she's right. Listen."

Justus listened, and, for a moment, he did hear something. Something that sounded almost like whimpering. It was coming from somewhere off to their right – a direction he was pretty sure they hadn't explored. The only question, of course, was whether it was a tribute or an animal whimpering.

Or maybe … maybe that wasn't the real question. If it was a tribute, after all, they could either be whimpering in pain or fear … or because they were trying to set a trap, trying to lure in any unsuspecting tributes who happened to hear them. And if it was a mutt, the same thing was true. It could be hurt, or it could be bait.

"What do you think it is?" Macauley asked. Her voice was low, but there was an eagerness, a curiosity, in her tone. She wanted to find out what the noise was. She seemed almost _desperate_ to know.

And maybe she had the right idea. Maybe she'd had the right idea all along. Macauley was the one, after all, who had wanted to keep moving rather than resting the first night of the Games. And she'd managed two kills since then, while the rest of them had been going around in circles both literally and figuratively.

Maybe it was time he listened to her.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Let's go find out."

Macauley was beaming as they set out. Genevieve looked a bit more reluctant, but she knew better than to say anything. They were doing _something_ , which was what the Gamemakers clearly wanted, and anything was better than going around in a circle. Mae didn't look eager to get going, either, but she said nothing as they made their way towards the sound.

He just hoped they hadn't made a mistake.

* * *

 **Vashti Rii, 16  
** **District Five**

He just hoped they hadn't made a mistake.

Vashti gave Mariska's shoulder a shake, and she rolled over a little. They were a safe distance from the pit, but the opening still made him a bit uneasy. Not that he was about to admit it to any of the others, but it would be so easy for any of them to roll over the wrong way in their sleep and simply slide into the pit. They weren't right _next_ to it, of course, but there was something off about it. Something dangerous.

But they were still here, because they'd needed the rest. Surely the Gamemakers wouldn't begrudge them that. Mariska sat up a little. "Thought you told Barlen you'd wake _him_ to keep watch," she teased.

Vashti rolled his eyes. As if their ally would actually _remember_ that Vashti had promised to let him keep watch. Hell, they could probably get away with telling him that he _had_ kept watch for a few hours and simply forgotten the whole thing. It was certainly a better idea than _actually_ letting him keep watch. Who knew what the kid might do if they weren't keeping an eye on him?

Vashti chuckled at the idea before he realized he'd done it aloud. "What's so funny?" Mariska asked, in the same tone of voice she'd used before when she'd asked Barlen why he was smiling. Was she worried that he was losing it? Hell, maybe he was. Maybe they _all_ were. They'd come across a big, gaping hole in the ground and they hadn't run the other way. There was definitely something wrong with them.

Vashti shook his head. "Just wondering what sort of mutt might be down there." It was a lie, but a reasonable one. It had certainly crossed his mind that there might be some sort of creature at the bottom of the pit – maybe something Barlen had disturbed when he'd dropped a candle down the hole. But if something was going to attack them, wouldn't it have done so by now?

Maybe. Maybe not. The Gamemakers certainly liked building suspense. And the audience was probably wondering the same thing – whether there was something living at the bottom of the pit, just waiting for the chance to strike. "Maybe that would be a good thing," Mariska shrugged.

Vashti raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if there _is_ a mutt down there. Maybe it's something we could use."

Ah, so _that_ was where she was going. It wasn't a bad idea, and certainly not without precedent. Quite a few tributes from District Five had taken advantage of the mutts in their arenas. Eagles, tracker jackers, prairie dogs. Come to think of it, Carolina's final opponent had been trampled by a mutt in the finale, as well. But was she Mariska's mentor, or had she been mentoring Klaudia? He didn't remember, and he certainly wasn't going to ask now.

In any case, it was a good idea, but not really one they could act on until a mutt actually decided to show itself. For now, they had no actual proof that there was something down there. All they had was speculation. Guesses. They didn't have anything concrete, and he wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know what was down there.

Not until he got some rest, at least.

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

All of them needed rest.

Charu held back a yawn as the light from the window continued to fade. How long had they been trapped in here? How long had it been since they'd gotten any sleep? She wasn't sure, and she doubted the others were, either. Still, no one seemed willing to suggest that it was about time they got some rest. Maybe no one wanted to arouse suspicion, give the others the idea that they wanted the rest of them to sleep so they could kill one of them.

That was certainly why _she_ hadn't suggested it. She wasn't planning to kill any of them, of course, but paranoia was a powerful thing. If any of the others thought she was planning to strike, they might decide to make the first move. Of course, the same was true for any of them. They were all armed. They were all capable. Even Aleyn hadn't been badly injured enough to prevent her from trying to kill if she had the mind to.

But did she? Did any of them, really? Were they really going to turn into animals this quickly? After all, there was nothing threatening them at the moment. No reason to turn on each other _now_ rather than waiting a while longer. Their food wasn't running low. There was plenty of ventilation coming from … somewhere. Maybe the window. They would have noticed by now if the air was growing thinner, wouldn't they?

 _Stop it._ Of course they would notice. They were just tired; that was all. They'd spent a couple hours trying to put together enough cloth into a rope to reach the window, and they'd latched a hook onto the end, fashioned from one of the smaller pieces of metal they'd found on the table. But either there wasn't anything up there for it to hook _onto_ , or they hadn't managed to snag it.

Finally, Wes sighed, got up, and made his way back over to where they'd left their makeshift rope. He gave it a good heave, and then another. And another. And another. Consus rolled his eyes, and even Aleyn shook her head, but Charu made her way over to join him. At least he was doing _something_.

Unless … unless he was only doing something to make it seem to the others like he was still trying to get them all out of there. Maybe he figured they were less likely to kill him if he looked like he was trying to be productive.

Maybe he was right.

In any case, it certainly wouldn't hurt to offer to help. "Want me to give it a try?" she asked after he'd flung the rope up a few more times, still as empty-handed as the first time.

Wes shrugged. "Why not?" Charu took the rope, drew her arm back, and flung the hook towards the window as hard as she could. Nothing. Again, and again, and again. Harder. Harder. Charu grunted in frustration as she flung the rope up again. What were the Gamemakers thinking? If they wanted them to kill each other, shouldn't they have forced them to actually _do_ it by now? And if there was a way out, couldn't they at least point them in the right direction?

Suddenly, a soft pinging noise echoed across the room. Charu's eyes flew to the parachute that was floating down, but she was more interested in where it had come from. A hole had opened in the wall, just below the window. Just wide enough for the parachute to float through.

Charu immediately cast the rope again. It struck just below the hole. "Let me do it," Wes offered. Charu hesitated. She wanted to keep trying, but his throws had been a bit more on target. Reluctantly, she handed the rope over. The others were watching now, none of them the least bit interested in the parachute that was drifting to the ground. Wes took a deep breath, aimed, and tossed the rope again.

The hook passed through the hole, and immediately the stone above it dropped back down, securing the rope in place. Maybe the Gamemakers wanted them to be able to get out, after all! Charu grinned, giving the rope a tug to make sure that it was secure. "All right, then," she beamed, turning her attention to the parachute.

"Let's see what's in here."

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

He could barely see the Careers ahead of him anymore.

Retro took as deep a breath as he dared, still cautious of making any sound. As soon as the Careers had announced that they'd heard something, he had been certain one of them had heard him. He'd been careful, of course. He'd even taken his shoes off a while back and had been carrying them ever since, fearing they'd made too much noise. Even so, he'd barely breathed while the Careers had decided which way to go.

As it turned out, however, they hadn't heard him. They were following some sort of noise coming from the opposite direction, and Retro could only do his best to keep up. They were moving a lot quicker now that they actually had a goal in mind. It was certainly an improvement over going around in circles, but this was a lot more tiring.

He could always turn around, of course. They seemed to be going in one specific direction, so he could always head the other way and be fairly certain that he wouldn't see them again for a while. But something about that felt wrong. It was too easy. And it wasn't what the audience would want to see. He'd decided to follow the Careers, and now he was stuck with that decision – no matter what.

And it wasn't such a bad idea, as long as he could keep up. If they ran into something dangerous, after all, they would find it before he did. Of course, if they found something _too_ frightening and decided to simply turn around and run the other way, they would run right into him.

That was why he was doing his best to keep his distance while still keeping them in sight. If they decided to turn around and come back the other way, he wanted as much time as he could to duck out of their way, maybe head down one of the other passageways or back up the trap door. He was pretty certain he could still find it.

Well, maybe.

Maybe it didn't matter. There were plenty of different directions to go. It wouldn't be too hard to lose them, as long as he had enough warning that they were coming back. Like a scream or something.

Right. A scream. That was _exactly_ what he wanted to hear in a dimly-lit tunnel. Retro shook his head, shifting his shoes in his hands so that he could get a better grip on his knife. Not that it was likely to do him any good if four angry Careers came charging at him, but it made him feel a little safer.

And maybe that was the point, in the end. It wasn't about _being_ safe. It was about _feeling_ safe. About _feeling_ like he had at least a little bit of control over the situation, even if he didn't. Retro gripped his knife tightly. Maybe he couldn't control where the Careers were going, or what they were following, or what he might run into in the dark. But he could do his best to be ready for it.

He just hoped his best would be good enough.

* * *

 **Kit Rawlins  
** **District Eight Mentor**

They were still far enough away.

Kit glanced over at Lander and Carolina, who were watching the screen intently. At the center of the tunnels, Mariska was still keeping watch near the pit while the others slept. The Careers were still a good distance away, and didn't appear to be headed in their direction. Certainly none of them were making the whimpering sound that the Careers seemed to be following. What _was_ making the noise, he wasn't sure, but at least it wasn't drawing the Careers any closer to the only tribute District Eight had left.

Etora, on the other hand, was making her way slowly but surely towards the center of the tunnels. But given the choice between four Careers finding them and _one_ Career finding them, he had no doubt most tributes would choose one. Would Etora even risk trying to attack all three of them at once?

Maybe. He could never be entirely sure _what_ a Career would do. But she hadn't gone out of her way to attack Skyton and Merrick – although maybe that was because of the griffin at their side. And she'd only shot a dart at Kilian despite having the chance to target Shanali, as well. She was taking risks, but not _crazy_ risks.

Not yet.

Retro, on the other hand, seemed intent on following the Careers into whatever situation they were headed towards. Not a bad plan, perhaps, at least on the surface. It meant he knew exactly where the largest and most dangerous group in the arena was. But it also meant he was _close_ to the largest and most dangerous group.

Well, most dangerous at least. At the moment, the Career pack was the same size as the group in the dungeon. But they were trapped for the moment – although maybe only for a little while longer. And they were far away from Retro. Not that he had any way of knowing that.

Kit shook his head, watching as the group in the dungeon struggled to get the package open. It was surprisingly well-wrapped; sponsor gifts were almost always easy to open. But had the sponsors sent it, or…

Kit turned to Nicodemus and Duke, who were sitting nearby, watching the screen. "Did you send that?"

Duke chuckled. "I wish, kid. If anyone, it was probably Stellar or Bierce."

Consus and Aleyn's mentors. That made sense. Career districts were more likely to be able to persuade the sponsors to support even a tribute who was currently trapped in a dungeon. But something on the package caught Kit's eye. "But that's not a one or a four on the wrapping," he pointed out. "It's a six."

Nicodemus leaned a bit closer to the screen. "Where? Are you sure?"

Kit nodded. "There. Wait for them to turn it again … there! That's a six – or maybe a nine, but there's no one from Nine in the group."

Duke shook his head. "Damn it."

"What?" Kit asked. "Even if you didn't send it, it's probably something that'll help them get out of there, right? I mean, if it was a bomb or something, it would probably have exploded already."

Nicodemus chuckled softly. "I don't think it's a bomb. But as for something that'll help them get out of there … I don't know."

"Duke?" A voice behind them caught Kit off guard. Oliver and Camden were standing there, waiting for … something.

Duke raised an eyebrow. "Never rains but it pours. What can we do for District Five today?"

Camden took a step closer. "Harakuise wants a word with you."

"Me?"

"That's right."

Duke rolled his eyes. "Tell him to buzz off. My tribute might be about to get herself blown up."

Oliver couldn't help a chuckle. "I don't think so. But if you want to wait until after they sort that package out, I don't blame you. No rush, just—"

"Just come talk to Harakuise," Nicodemus finished. "Got it."

Camden shook her head. "Not you. Just Duke."

Duke leaned back in his chair. "Why?"

"Let's just say it's on a need-to-know basis." She and Oliver turned to go. "You know where to find us."

Duke shook his head as they left. "Great. Just great."

Kit drummed his fingers on the table. "What do you think they want?"

"Nothing with you, probably," Duke reasoned. "They would've said so. Probably something to do with Charu."

That didn't make any sense. "Then why not wait until after they finish opening the package?" He turned to Nicodemus. "And why wouldn't they want to talk to you? It's not like…" He trailed off.

"Not like my tribute's alive to pose a threat to their plans," Nicodemus finished. "I don't know, Kit, but I doubt it's about any of the tributes." He laid a hand on Duke's shoulder. "You be careful. Whatever they're planning … Just keep your eyes open, okay?"

Duke nodded. "Always. I just hope—"

He was cut off by a ripping sound as the package finally burst open, and something clattered to the floor. Nicodemus nodded a little when he saw what it was.

"Here we go."

* * *

" _There's warrant in that theft which steals itself, when there's no mercy left."_


	41. Water

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Hunger Games.

 **Note:** Results of the last poll are up on the website. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking who you _want_ to see in the final eight. Again, please try to make this math nerd happy and vote for _eight_ tributes for the final eight. As usual, **read the chapter first** because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

* * *

 **Day Four  
** **Water**

* * *

 **Bierce Lascher  
** **District Four Mentor**

At least it wasn't fire.

Bierce leaned back in his chair, watching as most of the other mentors stared at the screen where Aleyn, Consus, Charu, and Wes were trying to figure out exactly what the pieces in their package were supposed to assemble into. He'd already worked it out, but the package hadn't been the only clue. Most of the others probably hadn't noticed; they were too busy watching events inside the castle.

They hadn't noticed that it was raining.

Shanali had noticed, of course, and had immediately started heading back down the stairs as if she was afraid she might be struck by lightning. Maybe she was. But the rain wasn't for her benefit. If the Gamemakers had simply wanted her back inside, there were other ways to accomplish that. No, rain didn't fall in the arena without a damn good reason. And since most of the tributes were already indoors, there weren't many good reasons for it to be raining.

In fact, he could only think of one.

He hoped he was wrong. He _desperately_ hoped he was wrong. But a nagging voice at the back of his mind told him otherwise.

That feeling was only confirmed as Kalypso settled into a seat next to him. "How long do you think it'll be before they work it out?"

Bierce shook his head. "Give them time. I doubt any of them have even _seen_ one before."

Kalypso scoffed. "Think they'll figure it out once the ceiling starts leaking?"

Bierce chuckled. "Probably."

"And then what?"

Bierce shrugged. "And then they'll have to make a choice."

"That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're not worried that—"

"That what? That they'll decide Aleyn is the most expendable. They might. Maybe they'd be right. But there's nothing I can do about it. Not like I can send her anything to guarantee that the rest of them won't kill her. None of us can." He shrugged. "You didn't send anything to Emmett."

Kalypso shook her head. "Figured he could handle himself, after he was clever enough to lure Macauley in. I was wrong."

"No. You were right. At some point, it was up to him to handle himself, to solve his own problems. He didn't. But maybe Aleyn can."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Bierce sighed. "Because fifteen years ago, that was me in that arena. Everyone gone except the Career pack. Six of us, allies from the start, and we turned on each other like wolves when the time came. We'd spent days together in the arena, and none of that mattered. Because all of us wanted to come home." He shook his head.

"And I think Aleyn does, too."

* * *

 **Wes Bartoshesky, 16  
** **District Eleven**

"I think I know what it is."

Wes looked up as Aleyn turned one of the cylinders over in her hands. The rest of them had been handling the objects carefully, as if they might explode. And they certainly _looked_ like components for some sort of a bomb. There were three cylinders with a few dials and valves, three hose-like pieces, three flat pieces of plastic.

Carefully, Aleyn connected the hose to one of the cylinders. A few turns here, a few pieces there, and she had it assembled. "It's for breathing underwater," she explained, holding one end of the hose up to her mouth to demonstrate. "See?"

Charu shook her head. "Why would Duke send these?"

Consus chuckled. "What makes you think it was him?"

Charu turned the package over. It had a six on one side. It was small, but it was definitely there. "If he didn't send it, then who? And why would they send us something to breathe underwater unless—"

"—unless we're going to _be_ underwater soon," Wes finished. "It _is_ raining out there." It had been for a while, in fact. He hadn't been paying much attention to the rain pounding down on the roof. Not until now.

"Out _there_ ," Charu reasoned. "But not in here."

"Not yet," Aleyn started. "Maybe—"

She'd barely gotten the word out before Wes felt a drop of water on his hand. He looked up. "Is the ceiling … leaking?"

Charu wiped another water droplet off her hand. "I think so. But it'll take days to fill up at this rate."

Wes nodded. Under ordinary circumstances, that would be true. But these weren't ordinary circumstances. The ceiling hadn't even been leaking until a few moments ago. The Gamemakers were probably completely in control of how much water came in, and how fast.

Consus looked up, studying the ceiling. "If there's a hole up there where water is coming in, and if they can make it bigger so that the water will come in faster, then maybe we can get out that way."

"How?" Wes asked. He'd tossed the rope up to the window, not the ceiling, and now it was stuck there.

It was Aleyn who caught on. "We wait. We wait for the water to start to fill the room, and then we … well, I guess we swim up there, and hope that there's an opening we can get out of."

"Not all of us can swim," Charu pointed out. Wes nodded. He hadn't wanted to be the one to say it, but waiting until the room was full of water didn't sound like a good option.

"We don't have to be experts," Consus reasoned. "That's what the breathing tubes are for. We just have to stay afloat well enough to make our way up there when the time comes. I think we can manage that."

Aleyn hesitated. "But there are only three of them."

Wes nodded. Someone had finally said it. There were three breathing tubes. Four of them. The water from the ceiling was starting to drip faster. Or maybe that was just his imagination. "But you can swim, though, right?" he asked Aleyn.

Aleyn's face grew red. "Doesn't mean I can breathe underwater!"

"No, but you can probably stay afloat better than the rest of us," Consus reasoned. "You have the best chance of being able to survive without one."

Aleyn shook her head. "And if we can't get out the top? Then what?" There was a thin layer of water on the floor now. What had started as a droplet or two of water was becoming thin streams of water droplets from several different spots in the ceiling. She had a point. What if she'd been wrong about there being an opening large enough for them to get out of?

"Then we'll figure something else out," Charu insisted, stepping into the middle of the group. "We just have to calm down and _think_. We can figure this out. What if we share them?"

"What do you mean?" Consus asked. "We can't exactly cut them in half."

"No, but three of us can wear them, and we can take turns using the breathing hoses," Charu reasoned. "We can all make it out of this."

But she knew better. They all knew better. As much as she might try to hide it, he could see it in her eyes. She'd already worked it out. They all knew the truth.

They couldn't all make it out alive.

* * *

 **Aleyn Tillens, 15  
** **District Four**

They couldn't all make it out alive.

Aleyn took a step back as the rain continued to fall through the roof. The water was past her ankles now, and quickly making its way to her knees. They had to make a decision, and quickly.

The others, apparently, had already latched onto Charu's plan to share the devices. "You should get one," Consus said to Charu. "They were marked for you, after all."

Aleyn clenched her fists. She could already see where this was going. Charu would get one because the package had been addressed to her. Consus would get one because he had been the one to go to the cornucopia to get them supplies. He was the only reason they had a chance. That left her and Wes.

Wes, who had been the first to insist that they wouldn't turn on each other like animals. They had all agreed. But things were different now. The water was rising past her knees as Charu strapped on one of the cylinders. It was only a matter of time before the two boys claimed the others.

She had to make a move.

She had to.

She _had_ to.

They would say that she had the best chance of surviving without one. They would say that they would share the air, that they would stay together and wait and see what happened. But it would be a lie. When push came to shove, whoever had the air was going to keep it for themselves. There was only one way to make sure that she was one of the people who survived.

Someone else would have to die.

Aleyn took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, let me help you put the others together." The water was rising past her knees. She reached for one of the hoses and one of the cylinders. The metal cylinder was heavy in her hands. Probably heavy enough to…

But they were watching her. All three of them were watching. But they couldn't do anything. Not yet. None of them wanted to be the one to _kill_ her. No. No, they were just going to _let_ her die. That was worse, really. She connected the hose to the cylinder and fiddled with a few of the dials, trying to make it look like she was the only one who knew what she was doing.

Then she handed the cylinder to Wes. Wes raised an eyebrow; clearly, he had worked through the same math and had expected her to give it to Consus, then claim the other for herself. "You're right," she said softly. "I have the best chance. You three each get one. We share. We all survive."

He knew better. But maybe he thought she didn't. Or maybe he thought she'd decided to sacrifice herself. Either way, he took the cylinder and strapped it onto his back. "Thanks."

Aleyn reached for the other hose and cylinder, and Consus stepped forward, ready to take it once she was finished connecting them. He still didn't trust her to do as she'd said. Wes, on the other hand, had bent down to pick up something from the water. The hatchet that he'd left on the ground when they'd all been trying to open the package.

She had to be quick. His hand had almost closed around the hatchet. As quickly as she could, Aleyn turned around and swung the cylinder against Wes' head. There was a crack – a terrible crack. She hadn't realized how loud it would be. How much blood. Blood was already pouring into the water as Wes staggered to his feet, stumbling towards her. "What…?" was all he managed to get out as she swung again, careful not to damage the cylinder on his back or the hose attached to it.

This time, he fell, dazed, into the water that was quickly rising past her waist. But there was no cannon. Not yet. Aleyn took a deep breath and ducked beneath the water, reaching for the hatchet before he could. Her fingers closed around it. He reached out his hand to stop her, but he was already dizzy. He was clumsier in the water. He'd already lost a lot of blood.

She propelled herself towards him in one smooth motion, the hatchet sinking into his chest. Almost immediately, the cannon sounded. But his eyes were still open. Staring at her. He looked almost … surprised. As if he hadn't really thought she would have it in her.

But she had.

Maybe she always had.

* * *

 **Consus Caepio, 15  
** **District One**

Maybe she was the one he should've been watching for all along.

Consus stared as Aleyn resurfaced, holding two cylinders and a pair of hoses. One of the cylinders was covered in blood – blood that was spreading through the rest of the water. Aleyn hesitated only a moment before handing him one of the cylinders, already attached to the hose. "Put it on – quick."

She was right about that much. The water was almost at his chest. And he certainly couldn't swim as well as she could. Still, he couldn't help thinking that, if things had gone a little differently, _he_ could have been the one she had gone after. Wes had just bent down for a moment to pick up his hatchet…

Unless he'd been meaning to use it. Maybe he hadn't trusted Aleyn to simply hand over the other air cylinder. But he'd already had one. There was no reason to think he would have attacked her. It hadn't been self-defense. Aleyn had killed Wes in cold blood.

And he had let it happen.

Charu had let it happen.

Because they had all known it _had_ to happen. Someone had to die. And there was a part of him – a part that he was trying very hard to ignore – that was just glad it hadn't been him. He hadn't been the one to die, and he hadn't been the one to kill. Aleyn had taken that choice upon herself, and part of him was glad that she had. That was one less thing he had to worry about.

Of course, they would all have _plenty_ to worry about soon. Consus strapped the air cylinder on his back and brought the hose up to his lips. Even with these to breathe from, they would be in trouble eventually if they didn't find a way out. He wasn't sure how much air was in them, but it wouldn't last forever. They had to think.

The water was at his shoulders now. "Keep your head above the water as long as you can," Aleyn called. "The longer you can stay above the water, the less air you'll have to use, and the longer it'll last."

Easier said than done. The water was pouring down from the ceiling at an alarming rate. Soon, it began to rise above his head. Consus kicked off from the floor, his arms flailing a bit as he tried to tread water.

It was Charu who figured it out. "The rope!" she called, pointing to the wall where she'd thrown the rope up earlier. Where _Wes_ had thrown the rope up and caught it in the opening the parachute had made. Consus' stomach churned. Wes might have saved their lives. He'd certainly made things a little easier for them. Clumsily, he kicked and paddled over to the rope. Aleyn reached it first, but quickly made room for the other two to grab hold, as well.

"Okay," Charu gasped above the noise of the water. "So we hold onto this and work our way up to the window as the water rises. Then what?"

"Try to break it?" Aleyn suggested. "If we can make even a small hole, the pressure from the water should do the rest." She held up the hatchet she was somehow still holding onto. "This might be enough to do the trick."

Maybe. It wasn't much of an idea, but it was something. And it was better than anything else he could come up with at the moment. He didn't really like the idea of waiting until the water got that high, but there didn't seem to be much of a choice. They wouldn't want to risk climbing – not when there were three of them holding onto the rope. It might break, and then they would _really_ be in trouble.

Right. As if they weren't in trouble already. Consus nodded. "All right. We'll try that."

But what if it didn't work?

* * *

 **Charu Varma, 18  
** **District Six**

What if it didn't work?

Charu's gaze flew from Aleyn to Consus as the three of them clung to the rope, inching their way towards the window as the water rose higher and higher. They were getting closer. But every time they got closer to the window, they also got closer to the ceiling. Eventually, the room would be full of water. If they couldn't get out through the window, then…

Then what? The Gamemakers weren't just going to let them all drown, were they? Not when Aleyn had finally done what they'd wanted. She'd killed Wes, and … and nothing. Nothing had happened. The doors hadn't opened. They hadn't found a way out.

All that had happened was Wes was dead.

And she had let it happen. She could have stepped in and tried to stop Aleyn. But she'd been too afraid. Afraid that if she did, Aleyn might decide _she_ was a better target. The others had seemed perfectly content to let her have one of the air tanks simply because the package had been addressed to her, and she had been … relieved. Relieved that they'd all agreed she wasn't the one they should kill. She was glad it hadn't been her.

But she hadn't wanted it to be Wes.

She hadn't wanted it to be anyone.

But it had to be someone. And right now, it might be _everyone_ , if they didn't figure out how to get out. Charu glanced up at the window, which was getting closer and closer. Would the hatchet really be able to break through? The glass looked pretty strong.

But what other choice did they have?

"I think I can reach it," Aleyn gasped through the water that was pouring down. She drew her arm back and struck the window as hard as she could. Nothing. Just … nothing. Again. And again. Still, the glass didn't break.

The water was past the rope now. Charu let go, kicking her way up to grab hold of the edge of the window, instead. Consus quickly followed suit as Aleyn continued hammering away at the window. There were only a few feet, at the most, between the window and the ceiling. If they didn't break through soon…

Suddenly, there was a terrible cracking noise, and the blade of the hatchet snapped from the handle, sinking down to the floor below. Aleyn turned to the others, panic in her eyes. Clearly, she'd thought that once she killed Wes, the Gamemakers would simply let them go. It was hard to blame her for that, though; Charu had thought the same thing. They all had.

And they had all been wrong.

Okay. Okay, they just had to think. But the water was rising. It was past the window now. Reluctantly, the three of them let go of the window and kicked their way to the surface of the water, bringing their breathing tubes up to their mouths. Soon, the water would be at the ceiling, and then…

Then what? How much air was really in the cylinders? Charu pressed her hands against the ceiling, feeling for … what? A weak spot? The water was coming from somewhere. And if it was coming from somewhere, then maybe they could get out.

Except it wasn't coming from _somewhere._ It was coming from _everywhere_. Charu took a deep breath just before the water covered them. The others were pressing against the ceiling, as well, hoping for something to happen.

Nothing did. Nothing except the fact that it was becoming harder to stay afloat. Even Aleyn seemed to be having difficulty. She was grasping at the ceiling, trying to find something to hold onto. Trying to get some leverage, perhaps, to break through. Charu took a breath from the tube. Okay. At least they had that going for them; the air seemed to be flowing from the cylinders just fine.

But it wouldn't last forever.

Charu took as deep a breath as she dared. It already seemed like they'd been under for hours. It had probably only been minutes, but her limbs felt like lead. How long could they really keep this up?

Suddenly, she saw something falling through the water. A piece of stone from the ceiling. Charu looked around frantically. Where was the opening? Another piece, coming from a corner. She grabbed Consus' and Aleyn's arms to get their attention, pointing at the corner. Frantically, the three of them made their way to the corner as another piece of the ceiling fell away. Charu gasped for breath; already the air from the breathing tube seemed to be growing thin.

There was no way they could have shared it. They wouldn't have made it. Aleyn had been right. There wouldn't have been enough for the four of them. They could all have drowned if they'd tried to share among the four of them.

Aleyn reached the hole in the ceiling first and disappeared through it. Consus wriggled his way through next. Finally, Charu's head broke the surface, and she pulled herself through the hole and onto the roof of the castle, the tube and the cylinder falling away as she squeezed through the space. They were alive.

They were all alive.

No. No, not _all_ of them. But three of them were alive. Maybe that was the best they could have hoped for, ever since they'd been locked in the room. One of them had to die, but it had _only_ been one. It could have been worse.

But now what were they supposed to do?

It was Consus who finally spoke, sputtering a little. "We can't just stay here – not when the roof is collapsing."

"It looks a bit sturdier over there," Charu offered, pointing towards the center of the roof. That didn't make sense, really – not from a structural point of view. It should have been weak at the center and stronger at the edges. But the roof only seemed to be collapsing in the area right above the dungeon they'd been in. The rest of the castle seemed unaffected. Once they made it to that part of the roof, they would probably be safe for a while.

Then they would just have to find a way back in.

Later. That could wait until later. Carefully, the three of them inched their way across the roof, careful not to collapse any more of it. Soon, they were on relatively solid roof, and Charu finally got a good look around. There were three towers rising high above their position on the roof, but there didn't seem to be anyone on them. Of course no one would want to be outside in the rain. But it was better than being _inside_ in a flooding room.

And it was better than being dead.

* * *

 **Shanali Theisen, 17  
** **District Eleven**

They were both dead.

Shanali stared at the wall of the stairwell as Wes' face faded from the wall and was quickly replaced with Kilian's. She'd known, of course, that Kilian might well be dead, considering he hadn't found her yet. But Wes … She hadn't known for certain that he was still alive, but now…

Now she was pretty sure they were both dead. Their faces fit the pattern. Two deaths. Two killers. Now two deaths. At least the Gamemakers were being consistent with the groups of two, although the last two anthems hadn't immediately followed the cannons like the first few had. Still, it was enough to be fairly certain.

She was the only tribute left from District Eleven.

Nineteen tributes left – barely less than in a regular year – and she was her district's only chance now. Maybe that should have been a good thing; it meant Eleven's mentors could focus on her. But what good would that do? They'd already managed to send her a sponsor gift, but it hadn't stopped her alliance from being attacked. It hadn't saved Kilian.

It hadn't been _meant_ to save Kilian.

Shanali's stomach churned at the thought. The gift hadn't been for Kilian or Ronan. It had been for _her._ And she was still alive. The gift had been a message that she was on the right track, but then they'd rested for too long. Or maybe they'd just decided to rest in the wrong place. Maybe the Gamemakers had wanted the mutt to attack _someone_ , and they just happened to be the nearest target.

Maybe it didn't matter why. All that mattered was that she had survived. And Ronan was still alive; that was more than she'd hoped for.

The only question now was whether she should go back and try to find him.

Shanali leaned back on the stairs, shaking her head. It shouldn't be a question, really. He was her ally. Her friend. He could be hurt, and she might be able to help him. But on the other hand…

On the other hand, it was partly his fault they were in this situation in the first place. It had been his decision to let the boy from Three go. If he'd had the guts to kill him then and there, things might have turned out very differently. Kilian might still be alive. They might still be together. Maybe.

Or maybe not. The boy from Ten might still have found them. The griffin might still have been with him. And it wasn't as if _she_ had offered to kill him, either. She'd been just as willing to let the boy go. It had been Ronan who had made the decision, but she hadn't stopped him. She hadn't argued. She was just as much at fault as he was, really. And so was Kilian.

And Kilian had paid for it. Ronan was the only ally she had left, and there were still nineteen tributes in the arena. Didn't they have a better chance together? Sure, he was injured, but she had no way of knowing how badly. She hadn't caught more than a glimpse of something hitting him before she'd seen the griffin and decided to run. For all she knew, he was perfectly fine. Maybe he'd only pretended to be injured in order to avoid drawing attention to himself.

Maybe. There were no guarantees, no way of knowing without going back to check. And where was the harm? If he was fine, all the better. And if not … well, she could always leave. It wasn't as if he would be able to stop her.

But would she be _able_ to leave him? That was the real question. If she went back now, would she have the nerve to leave him again if she had to? Maybe it was better to simply make a clean break now, while she could.

Maybe. There was that word again. She didn't want to keep guessing; she wanted to be certain.

And the only way to be certain was to go back.

* * *

 **Genevieve Odele, 17  
** **District One**

The only way to be certain was to keep going.

Genevieve clutched her dagger tightly as she followed Justus towards the sound in the distance. He was in the lead, with Macauley close behind. Mae was bringing up the rear, and every now and then Genevieve glanced back to make sure she was still there, that she hadn't decided to slip off somewhere like Etora had.

Maybe that wouldn't be much of a loss, if not for the fact that Mae still had the map of the arena. Was that why the sponsors had sent it to her in the first place? Were they trying to give the Career pack a reason to keep her around? Maybe. It wasn't as if she had been much use otherwise. She'd only made one kill, after all, and that had been during the bloodbath. And even that had been with Genevieve's help.

Genevieve clenched her teeth. The others were probably thinking the same thing about her. She needed to make a move, and soon. They _all_ did. Justus' bloodbath kill had been a little more impressive, perhaps, but it was still only one kill. Some Careers they were turning out to be.

It wasn't as if it was their fault, though. Not really. Aside from the short time they'd spent at the cornucopia, they'd been out looking for tributes. They just hadn't _found_ any. It was a big castle. And unlike some arenas where Careers could use footprints or broken twigs or smoke to track tributes, there was no way to tell where anyone was here. There were candles _everywhere_ , and even if someone lit a bigger fire – which didn't seem likely – there was no way they would see the smoke. Not that tributes were likely to light a fire, anyway; the temperature in the castle had been downright pleasant even at night, even down here.

If it even _was_ night. They had no way of knowing, and that was even more frustrating. It felt like days had passed since the start of the Games, but she had no way of knowing how _many_ days. If it was only the second or third day, their lack of kills might be excusable. If it was later than that…

But they were on the right track now. Or on _some_ track, at least. Moving towards _something_ , even if they didn't know exactly what. And it _did_ seem like the whimpering was getting louder. Whether that was a good or bad thing, she still wasn't sure, but at least it was _something_. And the audience would have to appreciate that they were doing _something._

Wouldn't they?

The sound was definitely growing louder. Finally, they could see something in the corner up ahead. Something huddled on the ground. It was too dark in the corner to tell who, exactly, it was, but they were definitely crying. "Could still be a trap," Justus muttered.

Genevieve rolled her eyes. "Pretty pathetic trap if it is," she whispered. "How do they plan to kill four of us? Let's just put them out of their misery and get it over with."

Justus raised an eyebrow. "You first."

Genevieve hesitated. It wasn't an offer; it was a challenge. He was waiting to see whether she would take orders from him, perhaps. Or maybe he was so worried that it was a trap that he wanted her to go first. Either way, his tone made her uneasy. What if there _was_ a catch? This seemed a little too easy. She shook her head. "No, you first."

Macauley chuckled a little. "Impressive bunch, you are. I told you I'd give you a chance to catch up, but if neither of you wants to—"

"I'll do it." Mae's voice caught Genevieve by surprise. "It has to be me."

Genevieve cocked her head a little. Not 'it should be me' or 'I want to give it a try.' For whatever reason, Mae thought it _had_ to be her. But she wasn't about to argue. "All right, then," Genevieve ageed. "Go ahead."

But Mae hadn't waited for permission.

* * *

 **Mae Swenson, 13  
** **District One**

It _had_ to be her.

Mae gripped her cleaver tightly as she made her way towards the figure in the corner. She _had_ to be the one to do this. It all made sense now. That was what the map had been about all along. The sponsors were giving her a chance to get it right this time. They'd led her to the perfect spot. To a tribute who would be an easy kill. All because she'd refused to the last time she'd had a chance.

Justus was worried that it might be a trap. But it was the opposite of a trap. It was an opportunity. The _perfect_ opportunity to prove she'd deserved the sponsor gift they'd sent her. That she had as much right as any of the others to be here. That she was as much a Career as any of them.

She wasn't a Career, of course. But neither were they. And if they were going to pretend, then she could pretend just as well as any of them. She took a few more steps towards the figure in the dark. She could see something moving up and down. Whoever it was, they were still breathing.

But not for long.

Mae took a deep breath and raised her cleaver. Okay. Okay, she just had to make it quick. Get it over with. _Okay. Okay, just count to three._ She could do that. _One. Two._

Then she heard a growl.

Mae stepped back as the figure stirred. It wasn't a tribute. It was a mutt. But that didn't make any difference, really. "Wait!" Macauley called, but Mae didn't hear her. The cleaver came down towards the mutt.

But then it sprang.

Its jaws closed around her arm before the cleaver could reach its mark. Another pair of jaws sank into her shoulder. Mae screamed as she toppled over backwards. Was there more than one mutt? No. No, there was more than one _head_. Three heads – dogs' heads – coming from one body. "Help!" she called, but she could already hear footsteps racing in the other direction.

No one was going to help her.

* * *

 **Justus Freeman, 17  
** **District One**

No one else was going to help her.

Justus gripped his axe as he charged at the mutt. Genevieve and Macauley were already running in opposite directions – but both away from the mutt. They didn't understand. Mae had been right; they had to do this. The Gamemakers were giving them a chance to prove themselves. The fact that their obstacle was a mutt rather than another tribute didn't make much difference, in the end.

His blade came down against the mutt's neck. Well, _one_ of its necks. The creature was some sort of dog, its heads only coming to about his waist or so. It had caught Mae off-guard; that was all. He struck the neck again, and the mutt loosened its grip on Mae. Or at least, _that_ head did. Mae was still screaming as the dog snarled, one of the other heads getting closer to her throat.

Then he saw the other shape in the shadows.

It was bigger. Darker. Had it been waiting there all along? Had it come around the corner while he'd been distracted? He wasn't sure, but it was here now, and it was _big._ It looked exactly like the other dog, only larger. _Much_ larger.

Justus turned to run, but the dog was too fast. One of the heads snapped at him, its jaws closing around his waist even as he tried to run. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the smaller dog sink its fangs into Mae's throat. Screaming turned to a thick gurgling sound. Justus swung his axe at the mutt that held him, but it didn't even seem to notice. One of the heads sank its teeth into his shoulder. Blood spurted out as a crunching, snapping noise drowned out his own screams. He didn't have to look to know that the arm was gone.

A cannon sounded. For a moment, he was certain it was his own, but he was still alive. Mae's, then. Justus could see one of the heads coming towards his own throat.

He barely had time to scream.

* * *

 **Macauley Tierney, 17  
** **District Five**

The screaming finally stopped when the second cannon sounded.

Macauley kept running, ignoring the fact that Genevieve had run in the opposite direction. Clearly, joining up with the Careers again had been a mistake. She was just lucky it hadn't been a _fatal_ mistake. Lucky that Mae had decided to try to attack the mutt. The mutt she had assumed was a tribute.

That wasn't Mae's fault, really. They had _all_ assumed it was a tribute. It was a natural assumption, considering the Gamemakers had seemed to be leading them in that direction. Why had they wanted to lure the Careers to their deaths? Had the others' performance so far really been _that_ pathetic?

Maybe it had. If they were telling the truth, none of the others had made a kill since the bloodbath – except Etora, who'd had the sense to leave them. And there was no reason for them to lie about that. Whether they simply hadn't found any tributes or hadn't been trying hard enough to look for them, it was obvious the Gamemakers – and the audience – weren't satisfied with what they had been doing.

So maybe it was time to go back to what _she_ had been doing. She had been doing just fine on her own, after all, and it had only been luck that had brought her back to the others. Now … well, it would probably be best to find a way out of these tunnels. They'd been wandering around in circles for so long, she probably wasn't all that far from the way they'd come in.

Macauley shook her head. It seemed like such a waste. Two of them gone, just like that. At least, it was probably safe to assume at this point that the cannons had been theirs. Still, their faces hadn't appeared on the wall.

But what would they show even if they did? If they kept following the pattern, the next two faces should have belonged to the killers, not the tributes who had died. But did they really plan to show a giant three-headed dog?

Probably not. Maybe that was why the anthem hadn't started playing yet. Or maybe they were just waiting to see whether the dog would catch up with her or Genevieve. She couldn't hear it behind her, but none of them had heard the larger dog until it had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Well, not _quite_ out of nowhere. It had seemed to be lifting itself up out of the ground, almost like something rising out of a muddy pit.

Macauley gripped her rapier, shuddering. Part of her had thought about staying and trying to help Justus fight the mutt – a part she was now very glad she hadn't listened to. They were out of their league, all four of them. But only she and Genevieve had had the sense to realize it.

 _Okay. Okay, just breathe._ She was probably safe now. Wherever the mutt was, she'd put a good distance between them. She just hoped she would be able to find a way back to the surface level of the castle. It would probably be a little bit safer up there. Well, maybe not _safer_ , but there would certainly be more tributes to hunt up there.

After all, what sort of tributes would _choose_ to stay down here?

* * *

 **Mariska Vasile, 16  
** **District Eight**

This was the longest they'd stayed in one spot since the Games had started.

Mariska shook Barlen awake as Vashti opened their pack of supplies. They still had some bread left, along with a bit of water. Maybe it wasn't much, but it would still last them a while. It would be good to find water, though.

Maybe that was the reason Vashti had suggested staying near the pit a while longer. Maybe he was trying to figure out how to reach the water that was down there without … well, without _going_ down there. There didn't seem to be a good way to get down, anyway. They didn't have any rope, or anything else to lower a container down with. But maybe they would be able to find something they could use instead.

It was certainly worth considering, at least. It wasn't as if they were likely to find another source of water anytime soon. And a second sponsor gift was probably a bit too much to hope for unless they did something truly impressive. Then again, the first gift hadn't been because they'd done something worth rewarding. It had been intended to nudge them into an alliance.

An alliance that, so far, had paid off. Barlen had been the one who had killed someone, after all. The fact that it had been her district partner … well, she still wasn't quite comfortable with that, but she kept telling Barlen that Klaudia had been trying to kill him.

But was that even true? Barlen had _said_ it was true, of course, but had he really remembered it correctly? She had a hard time picturing Klaudia trying to kill anyone. But on the other hand, it didn't seem likely that Barlen would have attacked someone unless he was afraid for his life.

Would he?

A few days ago, she would have had a hard time believing he was capable of it. But ever since he'd killed Klaudia, he'd been … different. Maybe that was normal. Tributes were usually a bit off after they'd killed someone. But Vashti hadn't seemed bothered by the fact that they'd killed Aven at the start of the Games.

Mariska held back a chuckle as she realized. She hadn't even thought about that. She had no right to be upset about Barlen killing her district partner, because she'd done the same thing. The only difference was that he didn't know it. She and Vashti had told him that they'd been working with Aven during the bloodbath, but what were the chances that he even remembered that much? Did he even remember that his district partner was dead?

Probably not. Maybe it was better that way. It was one less thing for him to worry about. Not that he had seemed worried about his district partners. But that was pretty normal, wasn't it? How often had she worried about Klaudia, even before her face had appeared on the wall? Was Vashti worried about any of _his_ district partners? Probably not. They were with the Career pack, after all – if they were still alive. Or at least, two of them were.

Suddenly, Vashti held up a hand to stop Barlen, who was chattering away about … something. She'd been so lost in thought, she hadn't even realized he was talking. But he stopped as soon as he saw the look on Vashti's face. "What is it?"

"Do you hear that?" Vashti whispered.

Mariska listened. She _did_ hear something – something that sounded like footsteps. But not hard footsteps. More like bare feet on the hard floor. Then she saw a figure – a small figure, running through one of the entrances to the room.

She and Barlen immediately ducked down, but Vashti chuckled. "So he's still alive." He ducked down beside the others, but not before the boy turned and saw them. "Don't go that way!" the younger boy shouted, pointing back the way he had come before disappearing through the opposite door.

Mariska glanced at Vashti, who shrugged. "Good to know. Better stay low for a while – in case whatever he's running from is still following."

Mariska nodded. She wasn't sure what she'd expected him to say, but staying put … well, it made sense. If they went after the boy now, they would only put themselves in the middle of a chase. They certainly didn't want to be caught by whatever the boy was running from.

Besides, he was Vashti's district partner.

* * *

 **Retro Liu, 12  
** **District Five**

At least two of his district partners were still alive.

Retro managed a smile as he kept running. There was something satisfying about knowing Vashti was still alive. Macauley … well, she'd tried to kill him, after killing both of his allies. But Vashti hadn't even seemed to think about chasing after him.

Maybe he simply hadn't wanted the trouble, or maybe he'd thought there was something close on Retro's tail and hadn't wanted to put himself in the middle of a chase. That certainly made sense. He had no way of knowing that the dog was pretty far behind him, if it was even chasing him at all. If anyone, it was probably chasing one of the Careers – either Macauley or her ally. He'd gotten close enough to see that only two of them had made it out.

That was as close as he'd cared to get. He had seen the dog and started running, and then there had been two cannons – one right after the other. Two of the Careers were dead. That should have made him feel better. The Careers were some of the most dangerous tributes, after all. Instead, it just made him nervous. If the Gamemakers were going after the Careers…

But they hadn't come after him. Not yet, at least. Not directly. Macauley had found him and Ti on her own. The Gamemakers hadn't had a hand in that. Well, at least as far as he knew. He had no way of knowing for sure that they hadn't given her a hint, but she probably hadn't needed one to find the two of them. They certainly hadn't been hiding well.

And now he wasn't hiding well, either. But at least he was running _away_ from danger rather than following it around. Whatever had made him think it was a good idea to follow the Careers, it was gone now. All he wanted was to find somewhere to rest. Just for a while. Somewhere he could stop and get his bearings and try to figure out his next move.

But the hallways were all starting to look the same. He had no way of knowing which way he had been going, or which way to go to get back … well, _anywhere_. Part of him wanted to look for a way out of the tunnels, back to somewhere a bit more familiar. Or at least somewhere where the rooms didn't all look the same.

Something stopped him, though – and not just the fact that he didn't have the slightest idea which way to go in order to get to one of the trap doors. That was where the Careers were probably going, after all – back up to the main level to hunt. They hadn't exactly had good luck exploring down here. So if he _stayed_ down here, he was less likely to run into any of the Careers that were left.

Maybe. The argument was pointless, of course, unless he actually _found_ a way back up there. Right now, he couldn't see anything but stone walls and candles, just like the direction he had come from. The path split up ahead, but did it really make a difference which way he went? He had no idea which path would take him farther from the Careers.

Besides, _they_ probably didn't have any better idea of where they were going than he did. And he had at least a little bit of an advantage. He knew they were down here. They had no idea he had been following them. That was something. But there was still only one of him.

Maybe…

Retro pushed the thought from his head. Vashti hadn't shown the slightest interest in an alliance with him at any point during training. He hadn't exactly been rude – well, no ruder than he'd been to anyone else – but he'd made it clear they wouldn't make good allies.

But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. He'd run through the room quickly, but he was pretty sure he'd seen _two_ tributes with Vashti. One of them was the girl from Eight – Mariska. They'd been working together at the start of the Games, so that was no surprise. Well, aside from the surprise that they were both still alive and unharmed and still working together.

The other tribute, though … it had looked like one of the boys from District Nine. What was he doing with Vashti? And if Vashti had been willing to take _him_ as an ally, then maybe…

Retro gripped his knife tightly in his hand. No. No, he'd had two allies, and they were gone now. He didn't want to lose anyone else. Right now, knowing that his district partner was alive was good enough for him. If he stuck around long enough, one of them would die.

And he didn't want to go through that again.

* * *

 **Merrik Haims, 15  
** **District Three**

Eventually, they would have to kill again.

Merrik held tightly to the griffin's feathers as the three of them – him, Skyton, and Pigeon – made their way into the next room. Eventually, they would have to kill, but it didn't have to be right now. And it didn't have to be _him_.

The boy who had spared his life in the stairwell was probably exactly where they had left him in the other room. Maybe Skyton hadn't seen him. Or maybe he was simply pretending he hadn't, just like Merrik. He remembered there being three tributes in the stairwell that night – the night he'd run from the Careers after they'd killed Dinah. The boy from Four, along with the pair of tributes from Eleven.

And they'd all been alive, until he and Skyton had come along. Now the boy from Eleven was dead, and the boy from Four … well, he was still alive, at least, assuming the faces had been accurate. He was still alive; that was something. Merrik had convinced Skyton that going back to the other room wasn't a good idea.

It hadn't taken much convincing, really. Maybe Skyton had seen him, too, and was just as reluctant as Merrik was. Not that Skyton had any reason not to want to kill the boy from Four in particular, but neither of them were eager to kill _anyone_ again.

But…

But they would have to eventually. There was no escaping it. And if they had to kill someone – no, _when_ they had to kill someone – he would rather it wasn't someone who had been kind to him. Someone who had spared his life when they'd had a chance to strike him down instead.

He wasn't likely to show the same kindness again, of course. If they happened to find each other again, Merrik was sure the boy wouldn't hesitate to attack. He would want his revenge. But that … well, that was normal, wasn't it?

Was it?

Merrik turned to Skyton. "Your district partner – you said he was dead, right?"

Skyton raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"And your other ally – the girl from Eight. She killed him."

"That's right. Why?"

"What did you do?"

"I ran away."

That wasn't what he'd meant. "I mean … What did you _want_ to do? Did you want revenge? Did you want to … I don't know. Make her pay for what she'd done?"

Skyton cocked an eyebrow. "Did you?"

Merrik shook his head. Revenge had been the farthest thing from his mind when Dinah had been killed. "No, but … well, they were Careers. Getting revenge on them is a bit out of the question, don't you think?"

Skyton shrugged. "Maybe."

 _Okay._ That was unexpected. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if one of us is going to win, that means all the other tributes have to die, right? That includes the Careers, which means _someone_ is going to have to kill them, if they haven't already. Who's to say it won't be us?"

Merrik hesitated. Maybe Pigeon was making Skyton cocky, but he knew better. Even when mutts did take sides between tributes, they didn't keep doing it forever. Eventually, tributes had to fight their own battles.

"But you weren't wondering because of the Careers, were you," Skyton reasoned. "The boy that we…" He hesitated, but finally got the words out. "The boy that we killed … you're wondering if his ally might come looking for us."

 _Ally._ Not allies. Maybe he hadn't seen the boy from Four after all. Or maybe he was pretending he hadn't. If so, he was doing a pretty convincing job. Merrik simply nodded. "It crossed my mind. I don't think she's likely to attack us while Pigeon is around, but…"

"But he might not keep helping us forever," Skyton finished. Good. So he did understand. Which meant he probably wouldn't suggest something ridiculous like attacking the Careers. Because once a plan like that was mentioned, the audience _expected_ tributes to go through with it, no matter how far-fetched. But as long as he'd only been alluding to the fact that the Careers would have to die eventually, and hadn't suggested going after them _now_ , they were probably fine. Probably.

And right now, that would have to be good enough.

* * *

 **Darian Travers, 14  
** **District Two**

The noise was loud enough for him to be certain now.

Darian turned to his district partners. "I think it's coming from the ceiling."

Mae shook her head. "Are you sure that's not just the rain?"

Darian hesitated. It had been raining heavily for a while now, but he was _pretty_ sure the noise was something else. Something firmer, more solid, and coming from the roof. "I'm pretty sure," he insisted. "I think there's someone up there."

Mae shrugged, taking another bite of one of the apples they'd found in what was apparently a room intended for storing food. "Let them stay there, then. Not like there's anything we can do about it, unless you have a plan for collapsing the roof."

Margo looked around. "We don't need to collapse it. Look." She nodded towards the stairs.

Darian nodded, following her train of thought. "Did you grab anything from the cornucopia that we would be able to use from a distance? It might not lead to the same part of the roof, but…"

"I didn't," Margo admitted. "But it wouldn't take long to head back and grab a bow or two. I saw some, but I figured—"

"Figured they wouldn't do us much good indoors," Darian agreed. "Let's go."

Mae shook her head. "Wait. What if the Careers are back at the cornucopia?"

Darian smirked. "We _are_ the Careers." The audience would love that, and Mae didn't object. _Couldn't_ object, if she wanted the audience's approval. Margo nodded, and they headed back towards the cornucopia.

Sure enough, there wasn't anyone there. Margo took her time choosing just the right bow. Darian simply picked one that looked flashy. It wasn't as if he'd had any practice with a bow, so one was probably just as good as another. Mae chose a medium-sized bow. They could only find one quiver of arrows, so Margo took that, promising to share as she swung it over her back. Satisfied, the three of them headed back to the stairs.

He just hoped there was actually someone on the roof.

* * *

 **Etora Nanovi, 12  
** **District Two**

She just hoped there was actually someone coming.

Etora held her breath, her back pressed flat against the wall as the footsteps continued. Bare feet, from the sound, and headed briskly in her direction. It sounded like only one person, but she couldn't be certain – not with the way the sound was echoing off the wall. And if there _was_ more than one of them, her best bet was to wait until they ran past, and then shoot a dart at one of them. With any luck, they wouldn't notice her until she was already heading in the other direction.

It had worked once, after all. The girl from Eleven hadn't even noticed that her ally had fallen behind. Of course, that wasn't a guarantee. She had gotten lucky. It might not happen again. But there _were_ no guarantees in the Games. Nothing was _really_ certain. Every Victor had to take _some_ chances in order to win.

Some chances. The trick was taking the _right_ chances, the _right_ risks. Etora turned her blowgun over in her hands. She had about a dozen darts, and there was little stopping her from going back to the cornucopia to get more if she happened to run out – which didn't seem particularly likely. It had only taken one dart to bring down the boy from Eleven. Whatever poison had been in the cauldron, it was certainly strong.

It almost seemed too easy – blowing darts at people and then running away. It seemed almost cowardly – and certainly not very Career-like. But going up against a giant mutt and two tributes single-handed … well, that might lead to a very Career-like death, but that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to _live_. To _win_. And sometimes that meant fighting dirty.

She hadn't really understood that, when she'd been training. She'd always counted on having more time to train, to make sure she was fully prepared for the Games. But tributes who were twelve – even Careers who were twelve – weren't going to win by brute force. The twelve-year-old who had won last year hadn't overpowered her opponents. She had outlasted them. Taken them by surprise. Snuck up on them in their sleep, put them out of their misery when they were injured. She hadn't been the strongest or the fastest or the most prepared, but she had _won_. She'd had the right mentality. She'd taken the right risks.

Etora couldn't help a smile. District Twelve would make a passable Career district, if they ever had a mind to actually train. Their tributes tended to be mentally tough, but physically … well, physically, they were lacking. She knew that a few years ago, some of the training supplies that had belonged to District Four had made their way to District Twelve, but no one there seemed interested in taking advantage of that.

It would probably take time. Career training hadn't sprung up in District Two overnight – or in One, Four, or Five, for that matter. It would take the right person – the right Victor – to start up a training system in Twelve. And that certainly wasn't going to happen this Games, with both their tributes already dead.

That was better for her, of course. Etora shook her head. District Twelve wasn't her problem – certainly not now, with those footsteps growing closer and closer. It wouldn't be long before—

Then she saw him – the boy from Five. The youngest one. So he was still alive. Interesting. He seemed to be running from something, but he wasn't moving as quickly as she'd thought. Maybe he was growing tired. Even better. She raised her blowgun.

But something stopped her. If he was running, then someone might be chasing him. He was certainly running from _something._ Wouldn't it be useful to know what, and where? Etora tucked the blowgun away and pulled a knife out of her pocket. _Okay, new plan._ She waited until the boy was _almost_ past her and then lunged.

He didn't even see her coming. Before he knew what was happening, her arms were wrapped around his legs, and he toppled to the ground, her knife at his throat. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for air. "Just make it quick."

It was tempting – _so_ tempting. And maybe it would be kinder to simply do it. But she didn't _need_ to. Not yet. The audience already knew she could kill. Now they needed to know that she could _play_. Etora pressed the knife a little closer. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you. Not _yet_."

The boy's eyes popped open. "Why not?" He was genuinely confused. He had no idea what she was up to. "What do you want?"

Etora shrugged. "Whatever you have. What are you running from? Where are they? How many of them, and how far behind you? Anything you think might be worth letting you live a little longer." She smirked, lifting the knife a little, allowing him to breathe.

"Start talking."

* * *

 **Violet Levine  
** **District Eleven Mentor**

They wouldn't stop talking.

Violet closed her eyes, leaning back on the couch as she set her empty glass on the table nearby. All around her, everyone else seemed to be chattering away, but she couldn't quite make out what they were saying. They'd started to get blurrier a few drinks ago. She'd lost count soon after Wes had died.

Died. That seemed too peaceful a way of putting it. Made it sound like he'd simply fallen asleep and hadn't woken up. Wes had been _killed_ , and none of his so-called allies had done a damn thing to stop it. They were just glad it hadn't been them. Now the three of them – Aleyn, Consus, and Charu – were huddled together in the rain on top of the castle as the first few rays of dawn began to shine through the clouds, trying to figure out how to get back inside safely.

It didn't matter. They weren't her problem anymore. Wes was gone. And Kilian was gone, too. Two of District Eleven's tributes, gone just like that. Shanali was the only one left, and she was heading back to where she had left Ronan. But that wasn't really her problem, either. Shanali was someone else's responsibility. Was it Tamsin or Elijah? She couldn't quite remember. But she knew it wasn't her. Wes had been hers…

And she hadn't been able to save him. Even if she'd been able to convince the sponsors to send him something, nothing would have made a difference. The Gamemakers had wanted one of the tributes dead, and Wes had drawn the short straw. In the end, that was all there was to it. There was nothing she could have done. Nothing _anyone_ could have done.

But did that make it better or worse?

Neither, Violet decided as she opened her eyes, ready to stumble back towards the bar in search of a refill. To her surprise, the glass was already full, and Jasper was sitting beside her. "Thought you might want another." He drained his own glass.

Violet raised an eyebrow. "What are you so upset about? Your tribute's still alive."

Jasper shook his head. "Thanks to sheer dumb luck. It could just as easily have been her if she'd volunteered to go first. Just lucky that it was Mae instead." He plopped down on the couch beside her. "Now we're down to two. Could've been one if the Gamemakers had decided to send the dogs after Genevieve and Macauley once they were done. Hell, could've been none if Aleyn had gone after Consus instead of Wes. He got lucky."

Violet took a long drink. "That wasn't luck. He proved that he was valuable to the group. He was the one who got them weapons in the first place. None of them were going to go after him."

"Unless they figured that he was the biggest threat," Jasper reasoned. "There's no telling what people will do when they're under enough stress." He shook his head. "But that's not the reason I wanted to talk to you."

Violet cocked her head a little. "What do you mean?"

"There's something going on with some of the other Victors." He nodded towards a group in the corner that seemed to consist mostly of the younger Victors. "Tosh sent me to see if you wanted to join us."

"Join you? For what?"

"I'm not sure. But it might be something important, and since you don't have to worry about Wes anymore…"

Violet glared, resisting the urge to toss the rest of her drink in his face. "Looks like mostly Careers," she muttered, which was only half-true. Duke and Basil were sitting with them, along with Brennan and Kyra. But the others – Tosh, Imalia, Camden, Harriet, Oliver … What were they all up to?

Part of her was curious. Part of her just wanted to be left alone. Violet sighed. Maybe there was no harm in finding out what they wanted, at least. She would have the rest of the Games to drink. Besides, it wasn't as if she had anything to lose. "Fine," she muttered as Jasper helped her to her feet.

"This better be good."

* * *

" _The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, and these are of them."_


End file.
